


Our Haven, Divided

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ace Omens, Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Book Omens, Canon - Book, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Curses, Established Relationship, Genderless Characters, Getting Together, Heaven & Hell, Humor, M/M, Multiple Points of View, Original Character(s), Romance, Third person point of view, but they need some encouragement to get there, nonlinear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: CURRENTLY POSTING A MAJOR REWRITE, 8/21/20Every angel knows that in the wake of the failed apocalypse, heaven and hell worked together on one project: the cursed punishment of their renegade agents, Crowley and Aziraphale.  By day, Crowley is forced back to his native snake form; by night, Aziraphale is painfully transformed into an owl.  Cursed to be eternally together and yet always apart, they've settled into an unhappy existence.  At least, until an angel breaks all the rules and drops by to gather information for her new role - as Principality of Earth.  Surely it's about time they remember that they're the angel and demon who defied heaven and hell, and gather the courage to do it again.Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019, with art by the amazing Weeardo0 and kindly betaed by Patchwork Ideas.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 138
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is undergoing a major rewrite! Chapter One reposted on July 17, 2020.
> 
> This story is for the GOBB Big Bang 2019, and is illustrated by Weeard0, who also co-created the character of Mae. 
> 
> My wonderful friend Patchwork Ideas kindly betaed this story, and it was made immensely better with their help.
> 
> Thank you!

Art by [@Weeardo0 on tumblr!](https://weeardo0.tumblr.com/)

**\--Heaven, Before Time--**

The last choir of angels began life in the midst of war.

Siriel was just one of the hundred in her host, wide-eyed at the endlessness of space and the soft light of heaven. Unlike those born before her, in the timelessness before the War, she was given little time to know herself, to find her place in the creation of the universe.

Instead, Michael appeared before her, and thrust a sword into her hand that dripped with holy water.

Siriel saw, in her first moments, Lucifer, their Morning Star, so beautiful to look upon that it ached. Then the peace of heaven was broken by a mighty crack that split the realm apart, shaking beneath her unfamiliar boots.

Then, the sound of screaming.

The leader of their battalion was the angel with the flaming sword, solid and strong. He was tasked with the newest angels, those whose first precious eon would be lost to battle, and he tried, in his way, to guide them. Instincts born into her led Siriel in the swing of her sword, the curve of her shield, but it was the Flaming Sword that led the way to the enemy.

They all looked the same to her: all angels, all brethren.

Angels, _elder_ angels, plummeted beyond the clouds into darkness. The sweet scent of heaven soured with the stench of brimstone and fire. Aziraphale’s steady voice pointed them like arrows at their targets, his hands lifted them when they slipped or fell in silver and gold ichor.

He turned away, when some abandoned Siriel’s battalion for the scattered ranks of the Morning Star.

Siriel learned what hesitation was, when he nearly held them back, a haunted look in his eyes; and then she discovered ferocity, as the flaming sword sent them forth and angels in rebellion were Cut Down and sent into freefall. 

She listened to his harsh breaths, saw the silver and gold ether on his hands. She was too young to understand why he stood downcast as Michael commended him for his valor. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. He was hard, and strong, and gentle, and endlessly, terribly sad.

She hurt, and she didn’t understand why. She was too young. They were all too young.

Then he was gone, sent to Her new project, Earth. “Principality,” was the rumor, _“a new kind of angel, just for the earth. Sounds like a punishment to me, and here I thought he did a good job.”_

It would be millennia before she saw him again. 

**\--London, A Park with Ducks: Autumn, 1991--**

In the wake of the failed Apocalypse, an angel and a demon found themselves with very little to do. There were no orders coming from on high (or low, depending), nor were they being bothered by their respective paper-pushing otherworldy liaisons. They had even been avoiding causing trouble or spreading goodness, trying to lessen their influence on the human race at a certain antichrist’s insistence. And yet, after millenia of being essentially ignored, they were suddenly of great...interest.

“Surely they’re spies,” Aziraphale said as they watched a person dressed entirely in white literally tiptoeing around the tulips at St James, while a being in a dark blue work jumper that appeared to have been well nibbled by rats was chased and bitten by an irate goose who had made her way to the duck pond. Both were so obviously out of place that even a group of visiting American teenagers were giving them a wide berth, disposable cameras clicking and winding madly.

“C’mon, Angel,” Crowley drawled, arm draped lazily behind the angel’s shoulders, almost but not quite touching, “even our guys aren’t that bad.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, clearly to argue about _our guys_ , but closed it without commentary. There were no _our guys_ beyond the two of them, not anymore, and Crowley knew that. “Then what are they?” he challenged.

“Tourists,” Crowley answered, with all the self-assurance of a demon with absolutely no proof but a great affinity for bullshitting. “They’re tourists, and we’re the zoo animals they’ve come to see.”

Aziraphale frowned. Three identical blondes in cream-colored uniforms walked by, peering excitedly over the _A to Z_ right at Aziraphale and Crowley’s comfortable (miraculously; any bench sat on so long by the hindquarters of supernatural beings learned to be as soft and comfy as a wooden bench can be) bench. “Surely not..” he said with rare uncertainty.

“Definitely,” Crowley argued. “Watch this.”

Without further warning, he threw himself dramatically to his feet, spun on one heel, and pointed a demonic finger gun-style at the watching triplets. “ _Ssssizzzzzle_ ,” he hissed, a little spark of flame appearing at the tip with all the drama of a joke shop cigarette lighter.

The (angelic) triplets gasped, turned, and ran. The demon being eaten by a goose tried to take a picture. And the final angel, in all white, looked as if he might faint at any moment. 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said crossly. “It’s not as if we’re terribly interesting. They should go away and leave us alone.” He eyed the swooning one archly. “It’s very distracting.”

Crowley laughed at him, bright eyes shining from behind his glasses, a flash of forked tongue. “You think we’re boring,” he said, holding out a hand for the angel to take, “ussss?”

Aziraphale took it. This was new. Well, not entirely new, of course, but newish, and they were enjoying it quite a bit. He stood and shifted so that their fingers intertwined, plump and thin. Crowley’s grin softened just a bit at the edges as Aziraphale answered, “Well, my dear, you’ve stopped most of your tempting, and I run a respectable book shop-”

Crowley snorted and headed for the parked Bentley well on the other side of the park. The demon, having made friends with the goose (geese being clearly semi-demonic themselves), was snapping picture after picture of Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley made sure to have either one or two fingers pointed up in each shot, depending on his mood. (The demon would be very disappointed later, when he tried to sell the pictures to hell’s leading gossip rag, since Crowley had “clearly been aware and therefore _allowed_ the pictures, which is in good taste and therefore not acceptable for publication in the November issue of _Hell’s Handbasket_.”) “There is nothing respectable about your bookshop. Almost everyone on the street thinks it’s a cover for the mob.” There was a definite note of demonic pride in his voice.

Aziraphale harumphed, but there was a sparkle in his eye. “Yes, well. They might buy a book otherwise.” 

They reached the car and Crowley neatly swung the angel around, pulling him close and lifting the joined hands between them.. “This,” he said fondly, “is _sss_ strange enough for heaven and hell to think we’re _ss_ suddenly interesting.”

Aziraphale looked from their hands to Crowley’s eyes. “This,” he said fiercely, and Crowley could almost see his wings and smell the flames of that burning sword, “is none of their business.”

Crowley grinned. “Bastard.” 

Aziraphale sighed, but his mouth twitched at the edges. “Darling boy.”

A brush of fond angelic lips against a demonic cheek, and they slipped into the car. If Crowley accidentally-on-purpose nearly ran over a smallish demon in clothing clearly fished out of a trash bin in 1975, Aziraphale made no mention of it.

**\--London. Soho: May, 1996--**

Siriel walked slowly through the streets of Soho, as wide-eyed with wonder as any tourist. Though not her first time among humanity – she had completed her training, after all, to fulfill her new role – London was a far cry from the sweet towns and hamlets she’d visited throughout the world. There were so many _people_ , so many _buildings_ , so many _cars_ and _smells_ and _voices_. It was a cacophony of sound, scents, and sights, the opposite of the clean white simplicity of heaven, of soft music and sweet voices.

Of course, officially, she wasn’t meant to be in this part of London. No angel was, not anymore. But as a newcomer to duty on Earth, Siriel was allowed a few mortal months to explore relatively free of responsibility. They wouldn’t be watching her too closely as of yet. Probably.

So, as long as the Archangels (and Uriel especially) didn’t pay enough attention to watch exactly where she “happened” to be wandering, she should be just fine. After all, the prohibition on Soho was more a mutually agreed upon guideline than a hard and fast rule. It wasn’t on a stone tablet anywhere, that she was aware of (and Siriel had done an in-depth study of the stone tablets, published under the title “Words in Stone: History or Law? A Study in Interpretation and Application By Angelic Leadership”, which had been unpopular enough for her to be immediately recommended for work earthside).

Yes.

It would be _fine_.

She stopped in front of a building that she couldn’t quite _see_ , but that the internet (Hell invented AOL and less famous dial-ups, but Heaven had sneaked their way in through miraculous means) identified as AZ Fell and Co: Booksellers. The wards that quietly hid it from ethereal eyes were a mishmash of angelic and demonic power, messy but effective. She could just make out the pulse of them, even as her eyes slid compulsively away.

She took a slow breath, ignoring the churning in her mortal stomach that was a symptom of the miracles acting upon her ethereal-corporeal presence. The shop door came into focus, faded and dusty. She noted the sign that the reviewers online had spoken of, listing the shop’s ridiculous hours. She’d been here thrice before, and every time the CLOSED sign was firmly in place. But today was different. The sign read OPEN and, right beside it, _Large snake in residence_ in somewhat rushed handwriting and _I was here first so back off_ in a neater, if spikier hand.

Siriel’s simulated heart didn’t speed up – it was too new for that level of approximation – but she did pull a deeper breath into her fresh lungs before squaring her shoulders and pushing open the door. 

A cheerful bell announced her entrance.

There were only two customers. One was having what appeared to be a heated conversation with a plump blond man in a soft blue jumper; Siriel sensed his Presence immediately, and a shot of excitement went down her spine. The other human was holding a book but standing well back from the cluttered counter where an antique register perched, nearly rusted with disuse. The reason for his apprehension was easily identifiable: among the bits and bobs was a large black snake, its head lifted and tongue flicking in the erstwhile customer’s direction. A heavenly Curse pulsed around it, sharp and white to the eye that could see it.

“The demon,” she breathed aloud, barely audible. 

The black head snapped toward her, and she saw the sparks of color that flickered among the dark scales. Yellow eyes narrowed as a forked tongue tasted the air.

The demon let out a low hiss.

 _Oh, dear,_ she thought. _Perhaps I didn’t think this through_.

The snake – surely Crowley, demon of hell, originator of sin, and Serpent of Eden - ominously lowered his head, serpentine eyes sharp and watchful . . . and tapped the counter bell with his chin. It dinged merrily.

Siriel covered her nervous smile with her fingertips. Well. That was less ominous than predicted.

The owner – the Principality Aziraphale, longest serving Angel on Earth and former Guardian of the Eastern Gate –immediately turned to meet the snake’s eyes. The demon nodded in Siriel’s direction. Aziraphale followed his gaze and met Siriel’s eyes for the first time.

She gasped. 

This wasn’t-she’d never-

Aziraphale _shone_ , where humans couldn’t see, with a warmth and depth unknown in Heaven. It was not the warm/cold aura she remembered from the war, sharp and metallic. The closest she could compare it to was Raphael – not in power, Aziraphale was no Archangel, but in the way she felt almost _obliged_ to trust him, that he held knowledge no one else in the host held. 

It was breathtaking. Even his Curse’s dark miracle could not truly dampen it.

“Oh,” she whispered, even as Aziraphale’s mouth pulled into a frown, crinkling at the corners, and Siriel felt the push of that power against her own. 

The angel excused himself from his increasingly agitated customer and drifted over to Siriel. “May I help you?” he asked kindly, and Siriel watched as he raised a manicured hand to motion to the snake to remain in place.

She’d practiced what to say, but all her words deserted her now that she stood face-to-face with the Guardian. She’d been told he’d changed, but this soft, kindly looking man, in his blue vest and wrinkles around his eyes, was so far removed from the warrior of the Rebellion that her mind refused, in the moment, to accept they were the same person.

He pitched his voice lower, and though his gentle stance didn’t falter, his voice sharpened. “Heaven hardly need check up on us, in our current circumstances,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“Just-” Siriel caught herself and tried again “I am here to see you, Sir. I have only recently been promoted, and as you have the most experience on earth . . .” she waved a hand weakly.

He studied her with a strange combination of _comfort_ and _suspicion_. Then he smiled. It was like the sun parting the clouds and a dozen other clichés she’d learned in her English lessons, bright and pleased and oh so sharp. “We shall see,” he told her. Then the smile turned into a beaming grin.

“Family emergency!” he announced. He clapped his hands together with something approaching glee. “Afraid we have to close early today, I am _terribly_ sorry for the inconvenience!!”

 _Odd_ , Siriel thought, as he didn’t sound sorry at all.

The customer whose conversation had been interrupted glared daggers at Siriel. The one avoiding the demonic snake at the checkout snapped, “I was _so close_ ,” as if Siriel’s interruption had personally offended him. But they did leave at Aziraphale’s bustling, masterfully (impolitely) polite insistence, muttering angrily to each other until the door clicked shut locked behind them. The sign obligingly turned itself to CLOSED.

Aziraphale looked momentarily delighted with his empty shop, dusty and odd-smelling as it was. He gave a little sigh of satisfaction and took it in, hands on round hips. Then he turned back to her.

“Now,” the Guardian said, walking to the counter and holding out a hand to the snake. “As you no doubt understand, we are rather weary of angels in this shop.” The demon uncoiled, stretched, and began to slither up the angel’s arm. The way it moved made a shiver go down Siriel’s back, an unfamiliar response of her mortal body that took her by surprise. “And we don’t get visitors from above or below anymore.” 

The Curse flowed between them as the demon wrapped around the angel’s shoulders – the snake’s sharp and white, Aziraphale’s cloudy and dark. 

“Understandable,” she said, her accent a little too crisp and her words over-formal. “We are encouraged to avoid this business establishment and affiliated abodes, due to your angelic and demonic presences.”

The snake made an odd little hissing noise that caused Aziraphale to give him a Look. “Really, dear, be nice. She’s new. There’s no telling who taught her English.”

Siriel sighed. “I was educated under the tutelage of the Angel Fanreal,” she said. “His technique is excellent and his lexicon impressive.”

“And when,” Aziraphale asked delicately, “was he last on Earth?”

“1847.” Only a century and a half ago. How much could a language change in such a short time?

“Ah,” a smile crossed the Aziraphale’s lips, and Siriel suddenly realized that he was doing the same thing the demon had been –he was _laughing_ at her. “That explains it.” He turned away. “Come and sit. If we’re going to talk, we’ll need tea.”

Siriel had drunk tea. She’d been told it was necessary in order to fit in, given her assignment to England. It tasted like leaves smelled, she thought, and didn’t understand the appeal. But the cup Aziraphale handed her smelt of roses and a hint of honey, and the taste was rich, with a hint of sweetness. _Aha_ she thought as she took a cautious sip, _maybe this is why the mortals love it so_!

“I was unaware they were training new angels for duty on Earth,” Aziraphale said as he sat across from her. The snake lowered his head and sipped tea from the Guardian’s cup, submerging his entire bottom jaw to do so, but Aziraphale just watched him fondly, as if smiting evil in your teacup wasn’t something most certainly expected of angels. “Though as unpopular as it is to be stationed here, I suppose it’s to be expected.”

Siriel shook her head. “I requested this appointment when it became available,” she said. “I am honored to receive it.”

Aziraphale exchanged a look with the demon, even as he ran gentle fingers over the sleek head. “And what position would that be?” he asked.

Siriel opened her mouth, and then closed it. Didn’t he _know_ ? Hadn’t he been _told_? “Princ-” she took a gulp of tea for fortification and her body inexplicably turned on her, heaving and coughing as she felt her face turn read.

A broad hand slapped her back. “Slow down or you’ll choke, my dear.” The snake was making his sly little hissing noises again. Siriel gave him a glare. He stared back at her, head tilted. He looked, somehow, mockingly amused. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said formally, liking the sound of the cup clinking softly against its saucer almost as much as the cessation of her spasms. “I didn’t,” a little cough, “quite realize that was possible.”

Aziraphale’s brows rose. “Human bodies are capable of doing all sorts of things that are bad for them,” he said mildly. “You’ll get used to it, or discorporate. Probably some of both.”

“I shall endeavor to remember that in future,” she managed, though her voice sounded strange and rough to her ears. Then she said: “I have been honored with the position of,” she hesitated, “Principality.”

The hiss this time was not amused. Aziraphale rested his hand on the scaled back. “Given your apparent discomfort, I gather you mean this as in the Principality of the United Kingdom, which has been under my purview for some time?”

She looked down, suddenly finding the swirl of dark tea fascinating. “Yes,” she confessed uncomfortably. She hadn’t expected to be the messenger for her former general’s pink slip.

Aziraphale answered with a delicate snort. “Well,” he said, “about time.”

She lifted her gaze, surprised.

“Please, dear girl. I’ve been Cursed for nearly four years. In addition to making it impossible for me to perform any duties during nighttime hours, the Curse itself limits my ability to perform miracles. I assumed they’d fire me ages ago, though I admit a letter would have been nice.” He looked at the demon. “Do you suppose they’ve fired you as well, Crowley?”

The snake considered this, nodded his head, and then stole some more tea. “I would make you your own, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said in the tone of a very old argument. “Yes, yes, I know, not as much fun, and you’re a terrible, evil, tea stealing demon, after all.”

He sounded so – so fond. And yet so sad. 

He gave his head one soft shake. “I’ve been terribly rude. Your name?”

“Siriel.” She didn’t expect him to recognize it. She had been one of dozens under his command, millennia ago. But he tilted his head to the side, gaze distant.

“You . . . I remember the name. You look quite different in this corporation.” He nodded. “You were quite young then, newly formed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another sly hiss, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yes, yes, darling.” To Siriel he said, “There is no need to call me sir, especially as you are apparently my replacement. Presumably, this is an automatic demotion to . . . the choir?” He shrugged. “Honestly, it’s been so long since I had any proper angelic underlings that I doubt I’ll note the difference unless there is a removal of power, but that’s quite difficult in these latter days.” He motioned to the demon. “This is Anthony Crowley, though I’m sure you’re aware, just as you undoubtedly know that he can’t take human or demon form at the moment.”

The Curse pulsed between them, around them, and Siriel nodded. “Yes, I…was informed.” She swallowed. “Hello, Demon Crowley.”

The snake looked unimpressed.

Aziraphale hummed softly. “And what is it you want to know from me?”

“About humans.” Now on safer ground, Siriel couldn’t tamp down her enthusiasm. “I wish to learn about humans, from someone who has lived and worked among them. I wish to know of their language, and their music, and their moving pictures, and-”

A hand stopped her. “If you want to know about their books, I can help you. But if you want more details about modern humanity,” his level look was a challenge, “you should come back tonight.”

Siriel saw the challenge, and accepted it. “What time?”

“An hour after sunset.” Aziraphale stood, a clear if polite dismissal. The demon curved around his ear, keeping both yellow eyes on Siriel’s as she scrambled for her notebook. “I’m sure we look forward to seeing you then, my dear.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A love story is revealed. Our demon meets an interloping angel. Coffee is purposefully served far too hot.

Angels, according to the understanding of heaven from before time until March 8, 1991, were incapable of falling in love. They could experience the emotion of love of course, and were expected to love all things, but their love was meant to be carefully curated. There was love for God, love for humans, love for earth and all her creatures, and finally, love for other angels, in roughly that order (though the vast majority got away with not placing humans correctly in the hierarchy by generally ignoring their existence; only those sent to Earth as or under Principalities had to worry about exact love placement). As long as there was a great deal of general love and God was at the top, an angel had fulfilled their love quota. Special love for one being, however, and certainly with any  _ romantic _ connotation, was entirely too  _ human _ to be a part of the angelic psyche. 

Demons, likewise, were deemed incapable of falling  _ in love _ . Indeed, general knowledge held that they couldn’t experience love at all, though  _ lust _ , foreign to angels, was a useful tool for those down below. Love was a part of being an angel or a human, and not of being a demon. So little did demons think of love that Beelzebub and various dukes such as Haster never worried at all about sending underlings earthside for temptations. Hell was hell and demons were demons, but they were still better than simpering  _ humans. _

Given that both angels and demons were considered incapable of romantic attachments, one might assume that when this was proven wrong - on both sides, at once - it was done so with a grand, memorable show of power, a realization that rocked all the stairs, up and down. Perhaps both literally and metaphorically.

One would be wrong.

**\--March, 1991, London--**

Though Aziraphale was a collector of classic editions, his love of old words did nothing to stop him from adoring new books as well. After all, the bulk of his collection had been bought new; once upon a time, that first edition of Shakespeare’s First Folio had been fresh off the presses. While he certainly wasn’t above rereading old favorites, his memory (when applied to books, anyway,rather than, say, what day of the week it happened to be) was an angelic marvel. He could pull up his favorite excerpts without the book in hand, and didn’t lose any of it by burying his nose in modern works. 

Whether his passion for modern literature was a blessing or a curse was something Crowley could debate either side of, depending on his mood. This was especially true of Aziraphale’s carefully maintained collection of romance novels - the ones he kept in the back of the shop in an area they both pretended Crowley never wandered unless they were deep in a decent wine and teasing each other mercilessly. There was everything from a fondly preserved copy of Patricia Highsmith’s  _ The Price of Salt _ to a pile of modern bodice rippers to the growing genre of romances that also contained a collection of dead bodies and mysteries. But his favorite author, as evidenced by the number of her novels that lay scattered upon the bookshop’s copious tables, was Julie Garwood.

And it was in the midst of a Garwood novel ( _ Guardian Angel,  _ newly released and currently hidden from Crowley, who had bemoaned the previous installment as “terribly inaccurate, angel, it’s not nearly damp enough”), that Aziraphale had an epiphany.

He wasn’t the sort of angel who often had epiphanies, or at least, he hadn’t been before the Metatron had refused to take his call months earlier. Epiphanies were bad business for a being who was meant to obey and ask no questions. It seemed, however, that he had developed an unfortunate habit since the failed apocalypse of not only thinking for himself but actually acknowledging it on a conscious level. It was very distracting. And at the moment, it was distracting him from the Marquess of Cainewood’s heartfelt declaration for his flashing eyed lady love. 

He stopped reading and looked up. Crowley was on the backroom sofa, watching one of his programs on the television with his full attention. His coat jacket was tossed over the back, his glasses poking from the pocket alongside his red silk handkerchief. His dark hair was a mess. 

Something in Aziraphale’s chest gave a ridiculous little pitter pat.

The angel frowned. He flipped back a number of pages to one of the sex scenes he tended to skim - all that effort, which for ethereal beings would be even more Effort, for..what? It had always rather perplexed him - and looked at it more carefully.

No. No, none of  _ those _ emotions seemed to work alongside his pitter patter, but this later bit…

He returned to the confession. 

He tilted his head to the side.

He peeked over the top of the book at the demon lounging around like he owned the place. His friend of nearly 6000 years. His fellow disrupter of the Apocalypse (or...well, they’d  _ tried _ at least, together). The one being he pointedly did not imagine being forever parted from. 

“Do you know, Crowley,” he said aloud, waiting until Crowley glanced over to continue, “I do believe you and I might be in love.”

Crowley engaged in a rare and very rapid series of blinks.

“Pardon?” he asked, forgetting as he often did that demons perhaps ought not be so polite.

“In love,” Aziraphale repeated, and wonder of wonders he felt his cheeks warm at the thought, and there went the pittering and pattering again. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation at all. “You and I.”

Crowley moved to stand, got tangled up in a limb or three, and oozed to the floor instead. Giving it up as a bad try, he sprawled there, back against the sofa’s leg. “That’s a hell of a conclusion to draw, Angel.” he pointed out.

“Yes, well. There is sufficient evidence to support it,” Aziraphale sniffed, feeling strangely embarrassed. He hadn’t been embarrassed around Crowley for centuries. This part he did  _ not _ like.

“Such as?” The yellow eyes were bright an interested under the fringe of dark hair freed from it’s usual product. 

“Such as...as we enjoy spending time together. We would rather not be separated. We rarely get tired of each other anymore, but when we do, being apart doesn’t make us forget how...fond we are of each other.” Aziraphale toyed with the pages, fanning them thoughtfully. “And I find myself, more often lately, thinking back to times and cultures were physical contact was more acceptable, and we engaged in order to fit in.” He lifted his chin. “It was quite nice, as I recall.”

“Sure,” Crowley agreed, “but there’s the whole,” he waved a somewhat disgusted hand in a way that managed to convey  _ in and out business _ , “that they do.”

“They don’t have to! That’s optional.”

“Says who?” the demon demanded.

“Says,” Aziraphale scrambled through his memory, looking for an article or a book Crowley would appreciate, “David Bowie!” He grinned triumphantly. “In  _ Rolling Stone _ .”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I most certainly am  _ not _ .” Aziraphale put on his most offended expression to make a point. “I am very serious.”

Crowley sat for a long moment, then pushed to his feet. He crossed the room and looked down and Aziraphale, soft and old-fashioned and prim and proper in his chair. “Well.” he said with a quirk of a smile, “you  _ are _ the expert on love, as I recall-”

Aziraphale huffed, “Oh  _ do _ let that go, dear, it was  _ months _ ago, and-”

“So I say,” the demon continued blithely, “maybe there’s something to it.” He held a hand out, as if it was the 1870s again, and they could walk arm in arm with no fear of reprisals. Aziraphale stared at it a moment, then rested his own plump palm upon it. “And if there’s anyone I’m willing to hold hands with, it’s you.”

Aziraphale smiled slowly, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made a certain demonic heart go, bizarrely,  _ pitter-pat _ .

**\--A Certain Bookshop, May, 1996--**

Aziraphale watched the little angel go with a polite, confident smile. Only when the door clicked behind her, after he had triple locked it with the wave of a hand, did he let the expression falter and his shoulders relax. “Oh, my darling,” he said, stroking Crowley’s head, “what nonsense has made its way to our doorstep now?” 

He met Crowley’s eyes, bright and familiar and beloved. “Is it a trap, do you think? To get me – us – to let our guard down?” His voice hardened, and his stance shifted minutely, as if he held a sword and expected battle. “They could be trying to get close to you.”

Crowley’s head tilted, and he bumped the side of it against Aziraphale’s cheek. A chastising flick of his tail caught the angel on the jaw. “Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, “of course. Whatever it is – and He knows neither Heaven nor Hell is especially creative – we’ll handle it together.” He stared into the distance for long seconds, and if his proud lower lip trembled, only his friend was there to see it. “I know it’s pointless to complain, but I do miss your voice in times like these.” His mouth curved into a smile. “I miss our rambling conversations and philosophical arguments.”

His eyes closed for a breath, and his voice came out rough, “Of course we’re together, and you are the loveliest of serpents, but a proper voice would be nice on long afternoons. You could tell me that story about the bird again. What was it? I’d still be listening to <i> _ The Sound of Music _ </i> And you’d be ranting about big fish.”

Soft hisses and the tightening of coils across his shoulders took the place of a more human embrace, and Aziraphale forced the melancholy away. It served no purpose in their lives; never had, never would. “Right.” He rubbed his hands together. “This calls for more tea – no, nothing stronger, dearest, you have a visitor coming tonight.” He turned on one heel and made his way toward the kitchen. “Something soothing, with lavender. Yes. That will do nicely. Then we can discuss just what we should do with my young replacement.”

**\-------**

Siriel arrived, as invited, one hour after sunset. She was armed with a paper tablet for taking notes and a small microphone, in case the demon would let her record. She’d never had a proper conversation with a demon before. Angels and demons had always been discouraged from seeing each other in any social context, and that guideline had transformed into a rule when two generally-ignored supernatural beings from opposite sides decided to muck up the Apocalypse. But Siriel had always craved excitement, especially after being stuck in Heaven’s surveillance department for millennia, watching but never experiencing. Besides, meeting the wily Serpent of Eden should give her a helpful perspective on demons when it came time to thwart their wiles.

That was, after all, one of the two main tasks demanded of Principalities, and she needed to do her job well. There were those minor Principalities who were none too pleased that an outsider had been granted her current position, even if it was in replacement of a Principality ranked so low in general esteem that he’d been stuck on earth for 6000 years without reprieve.

With renewed determination, she straightened her shoulders and knocked on the door. It opened obligingly, albeit with a disconcerting slow creak that she didn’t remember from earlier in the day. 

“Hello?” she asked, poking her head in. “Demon Crowley? Mr. Aziraphale?”

“You know,” a somehow sprawling voice said, “you don’t have to call me Demon every time. Just Crowley is fine.”

Siriel stepped inside and looked around until she spotted him – long and thin, good cheekbones, dark hair, dark glasses covering his eyes. He was lounging on the desk with the air of a being working far too hard at seeming nonchalant, even as his foot – foot? Shoe? It was dark and scaled – twitched nervously. “Crowley,” she said, trying it out and feeling quite daring for doing so. “I’m Siriel.”

“I know. We met this afternoon. Aziraphale decided to pawn you off on me. What was his excuse? Something about understanding humans?” His fingernails, black and a little long, clicked against the wooden surface of the desk. A soft hooting sound came in apparent reply, and Siriel turned her head to see a tawny owl, unusually pale, perched on a wooden apparatus beside the desk that was clearly made for the purpose. It -he- tilted his head at her, odd-colored eyes narrowed suspiciously. His wings half-opened, defensive.

“Hey, hey there, Angel, you invited her, remember?” Black nails dug into the owls’ feathers, scratching soothingly. “He gets tetchy around other people.” Crowley grinned, and it lit up his face with mischief. “Always knew he didn’t like humans around as much as he tried to pretend. Loves all mankind, my ass.”

Siriel tilted her head to the side, confused as to what the relationship was between a demon’s backside (possibly he meant a donkey?) and loving mankind. Her knowledge of idioms was 150 years out of date. 

The owl’s head tilted, dark eyes watchful. Siriel offered him a small bow. “Mr. Aziraphale.”

Crowley moved his mouth mockingly, parroting the Mister, even as he slipped off the counter (briefly catching the bottom edge of his black suit jacket in the register, which took some not so surreptitious tugging to get free) and said, “Coffee. We need coffee. And you need to tell me what this is really about.”

**\--London, Every Sunset--**

The transformation  _ hurt _ .

The change itself, and all the emotional pain surrounding it, wasn’t enough. No, the heavenly Curse laid on Crowley made what had once been a natural, if disconcerting, transformation into a study in creaking bones and tearing skin. And for Aziraphale, who had never bothered with a form beside his human one-

It killed Crowley a little, every time.

His angel had only screamed the first time his bones broke and reknit, his skin folded, his eyes shifted. After that, he wouldn’t make a noise. Crowley knew why, and he hated himself for it. He’d reacted too strongly, worried too much – reached out and called the angel’s name and-

Aziraphale liked to think of himself as the soft one, but they both knew the truth.

In the instant that the sun set, Crowley’s long serpentine body convulsed and twisted, snapped, groaned, and took on the shape he’d worn for the last several hundred years. At the same time, Aziraphale’s warm, round body caved in, shivered, cracked. The blue-green-brown eyes watched him, and Crowley reached out – always reached out, always tried- and Aziraphale attempted to control his malformed hands-

Crowley touched feathers instead of skin, and choked back a choice bit of creative blasphemy.

“Hey there, Angel,” he said, momentarily burying his face in the thick feathers. 

Crowley knew Aziraphale couldn’t really understand him, but it didn’t matter.

They were together.

**\--------**

Crowley didn’t like this spare angel in his angel’s shop. 

The shop had become home since the Curse, even a select number of his plants now in residence upstairs near the best (carefully and painstakingly miracled) windows, and he had  _ never _ been fond of angels in his place of residence (excepting one angel who was also un-angelically self-absorbed and given to drinking too much expensive wine). Now, with both their powers limited, he liked it even less. Had he been able to get an actual word in, he’d have told Aziraphale to run the kid off; but Aziraphale was both nosy and kind (granted you weren’t trying to buy his books), so of course he’d dragged Crowley into this. 

Bastard. 

The weird angel with the cute hair watched in fascination as Crowley made coffee. He didn’t necessarily  _ like _ coffee - it tasted disgusting - but drinking coffee was a thing humans did; and the sort of human he preferred to appear to be drank only the best, most expensive coffee available (sometimes just the most expensive, he suspected; he’d tried that coffee that was made from weevil shit and it was even more disgusting than baseline coffee). And so, he owned several appliances that existed only to make coffee and coffee-adjacent beverages, and had slightly enlarged the shop’s kitchenette to make room for them.

At least it gave him something to do while every instinct was ordering him to hellfire the kid out of his home before she got her angel-ness all over it.

(Aziraphale’s angel-ness was different, being thoroughly diluted by his human tendencies and smudged by having a demon sharing his space all the time. Also, it was just . . . Aziraphale’s, and that made all the difference in the world.)

Crowley filled two mugs, adding sugar and fancy flavored creamer to his own (he certainly didn’t sneak around and drink the creamer on and off, nor had he tried it in a variety of alcoholic bases over the last few years Or fine, he did.. It was  _ boring _ without his personal angel chattering away all the time). 

But he internally digressed.

“Here,” he said. “Humans love this stuff.”

The angel - Siriel? Aziraphale had acted like he knew her somehow - sniffed it. “ . . . Why?”

“Search me,” Crowley growled, glaring at the liquid (which, knowing what was good for it, fearfully became a bit sweeter and less bitter) before forcing himself to take a sip and look cool while doing it. Aziraphale landed on the perch Crowley had painstakingly miracled into the table. He fluffed up, eyeballing Siriel with great suspicion. 

“You invited me here,” she reminded the owl, more gently than Crowley had.

“He doesn’t remember,” Crowley said, reaching out a hand to calm Aziraphale. He tried to keep his voice even, but the words came out a little too rough. “His form isn’t natural, like mine. I know who I am when I’m a snake. He doesn’t - he’s not,” he sighed. “He doesn’t understand everything like this, and he won’t remember much of what happened in the morning. I assume that’s part of the reason he sicced me on you.”

“Sicced?”

Crowley grinned, white teeth gleaming. “You’re alone, in his home base, with his demon. What would you call it?”

A flash of fear crossed the angel’s face. Good. He didn’t trust her, even if there was a vibe to her that screamed  _ never been on Earth before _ ! She was wearing the sort of off-white clothing heaven handed out as default, up-to-date but bland, and she moved like someone who expected their wings to  _ be _ there, physically. She sat in the chair sideways, as if avoiding her wings being crushed against her back by the chair. He’d never known an angel who was a decent actor (sorry, Aziraphale), but there was always the chance she could be the first.

Crowley let the grin widen, then disappear as he sipped the coffee. “Answer some questions truthfully,” he said, “and I’ll keep all my hellfire on my side of the room.”

She actually  _ perked up _ at this. “Do you still have hellfire?” she asked, and, yes, she reached into her heavenly bag and pulled out a notebook and a pen - good lor-sata-what _ ever _ , the pen had a little  _ halo _ at the top. Horrifying. “I was led to understand - in what little information I was able to gather about the nature of your curse - that your powers were dampened by the constant presence of ethereal magic-”

Crowley made an indeterminate noise. He hadn’t asked for a dissertation on their Curse - admittedly, it would be nice to know some more details, but a summary would be fine. “Well, I mean, powers are-” he stopped himself. 

Wait a minute!

_ He  _ was asking the questions here.

“I’m asking the questions here,” he said, trying to use the voice Aziraphale turned on certain customers who insisted  _ money is no issue _ . “And no taking notes! If you publish anything I say in the  _ Celestial Observer _ , I swear I’ll-”

“Torch me with hellfire?” The angel sounded more curious than fearful. Hell, he really was losing his touch. “You’ve no need to be concerned. They no longer accept my submissions. Too ‘clinical and well research.’” She took a sip of coffee, coughed, and very nearly spit it out again. 

Better. Also, it showed she had some degree of taste. He’d heard heaven was all about coffee these days. 

The fact that it was near boiling, and she wasn’t a  _ demon _ , could have something to do with it as well.

“First question,” he said as she coughed, “why are you here?”

“To,” the angel stopped fanning her tongue long enough to say, “see Aziraphale.”

“You already knew him. How?”

“I was a soldier in his platoon, during the rebellion.” She touched her tongue lightly with a fingertip to heal it. “You did that on purpose!”

Crowley grinned. “Demon,” he said, motioning languidly to his long form and tailored suit. He’d opted for the red shirt. More...demony. Aziraphale liked the purples best.

She looked like she was going to argue, but then she shrugged. “Fair,” she admitted, which wasn’t exactly the response he’d expected.

Crowley interrogated her for an hour. She had been a minor soldier in Aziraphale’s platoon (he forgot, sometimes, that Aziraphale was a principality, and therefore created as a warrior; he had purposefully made himself into something different, and it was  _ that _ version of Aziraphale he fell-well), and had taken an interest in the rumors that came about after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t that Earth’s original principality and a demon had been involved in the Great Plan’s failure (“tangentially,” she said, which Crowley found terribly insulting, because listen, they may not have made a huge difference in the outcome, but they had  _ been _ there, and he’d been  _ willing _ to fight Satan with a tire iron and that should count as  _ something _ ). She’d spent the intervening years between Great Rebellion and recent promotion in various minor jobs upstairs, though most of them dealt with Earth or Earth surveillance in some way.

“And are you,” Crowley asked, wasting an entire miracle to surreptitiously spike his overpriced coffee with generically cheap whiskey, “allowed to be here?” His ankles were crossed on the table, and Aziraphale had pecked a scale loose behind one big toe in retaliation.. The angel wasn’t all in there, it was true, but “I do still have standards, Crowley” somehow managed to survive in his bird brain. The owl was now tucking the scale among the soft down at the base of his tertiels, always collecting. Aziraphale had learned some time ago to release his wings every now and again just to see what he’d hidden there while in his owl form. 

It was, though he would never (okay he would if the timing was right) tell Aziraphale, really damn cute.

Siriel swished her undrunk coffee. She looked right, she looked left, she tapped his fingertips against the side of the mug. 

Oh, good, she was going to try to  _ lie _ . Hilarious. Even Aziraphale struggled with that one, and he’d prevaricated directly to God’s Light millennia ago. “Yes?” he asked, feeling pleased with himself for thinking of the question.

“Well, that is to say, that there are no official prohibitions against coming here, to the shop. In Soho,” Siriel offered. She tugged on one dark ringlet and offered him a weak smile.

“So that’s a ‘No, not really, but better to beg forgiveness and ask permission because I’m nosy’?”

“You really are the best experts we have down here!” she protested, tapping her halo-pen forcefully against the notebook.

“Of course we are.” Crowley gave his hair a bit of a toss. Aziraphale saw the movement and hopped up his arm to nibble affectionately on his ear. “Ow! Dammit, why-”

Aziraphale gave an angry little hoot as a feather on top of his head sizzled. Siriel gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, he’ll be fine,” Crowley said, ignoring the squirming in his stomach as the owl gave him the eyeball. “It’s all he deserves for blessing my sneezes in this dust palace.”

She still looked scandalized, even as Crowley scratched Aziraphale in just the right spot behind one hidden ear. The owl made a trilling noise that Crowley was fairly certain owls didn’t make; trust Hell to curse an Angel into a defective owl. 

He did feel bad about the feather. It looked sort of crooked and pitiful now. He’d be in trouble if Aziraphale’s hair had a burnt curl in the morning.

“You have thirty minutes tonight, and then we’ll see,” Crowley said. “What do you want to know?”

Siriel perked up like an ivy beating out the rest of the forest for the best of the sun. “Everything!” she said, then paused, “and I can take notes now?”

Crowley rubbed his eyes. It was going to be a long half-hour, he could already tell.

**\--------------**

In the early days of the Curse, they’d both tried communicating with each other in a variety of ways.

Writing was the most obvious, and of course Aziraphale loved any excuse to break out one of his favorite fountain pens and set them to paper. He’d written a long, loving letter, sprinkled with a few shy confessions and a plan of how they could make this work, and how they could share a journal to stay in touch.

When Crowley looked at the book that night, it was a mess of nonsense letters and inkblots. He’d not been able to read it while Aziraphale wrote it - his snake eyes and brain simply didn’t work that way-and he’d screamed into the darkness of the shop in frustration. 

His return message was just as much gibberish.

Crowley bought a tape recorder and recorded himself. The next day, all Aziraphale heard was pops and hisses. The video camera recorded only static, the computer type turned to wingdings and couldn’t be changed back. 

They were trapped. Together. And unable to communicate in any way. 

At least for Crowley, he was mostly aware in his snake form, able to form general memories of what happened during the day. For Aziraphale, nights were a collection of senses and blurry images, a mess of recollections. 

As far as they could tell, Heaven and hell never followed up after they laid the curse. Aziraphale and Crowley had no idea if the powers that be even knew how effective their punishment was.

He wondered if they even cared.

**\--------------**

Siriel stayed in the bookshop for more than an hour, but when she left, there was almost nothing written in her notebook.

The Demon Crowley was not what she’d expected. 

He was the Serpent of Eden, the originator of sin! She’d expected - something! Sharp teeth? An evil smile? Talons? Even if the humans couldn’t see it (hard to fit in with all that), surely an  _ angel _ should sense burning eyes and the stink of brimstone? 

Instead, he seemed incredibly human. Sarcastic. Dry. Sad.

That she’d felt, how sad he was. Not all angels could sense what were considered the “negative” emotions (though she had a personal theory regarding the lack of negativity or positivity in emotions which she had written up in an essay entitled “Emotions: Are They Really So Bad? A Study on the Interpretation of Emotion and the Interconnectivity of Labeled Positive and Negative Feelings” that had caused some minor conflict Upstairs), but Siriel could. Crowley was wry and funny and self-protective, but under it all was a layer of loss and sadness so deep-

Was it the Fall?

Surely it was the Fall. 

Why else would he be so heartbroken? Sure, he had to live with an angel, but they seemed to get on well enough (as wrong as that was). Besides, they didn’t have to talk to each other. Surely the curse was a bit of a blessing?

She stopped and looked back at the shop. For a moment, there was a shadow in the doorway - tall and thin, a soft outline on the shoulder.

Then the lights went out, and the shop went dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

**\--Mayfair: November, 1991--**

They weren’t together when it happened.

Even after the Apocalypse that wasn’t, even as things _changed_ , Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t feel the need to live in each other’s pockets. The doors to the bookshop had always been open to Crowley (even, somewhat to Aziraphale’s chagrin, when he had firmly locked them, but his ability to hint to this certain demonic influence that this certain ethereal one needed some quiet time was as effective as ever), and now the flat in Mayfair was open to Aziraphale as well (this sometimes to Crowley’s chagrin, as the sort of human he liked to appear to be didn’t pile warm blankets and old books on every high priced surface, or leave tea stains on the coffee table). They might spend the night in one place or the other, Crowley sleeping and Aziraphale reading (cuddling was also a newly favored activity, though neither was likely to use the actual word in relationship to themselves), or they might not see each other for a day or two. Naturally, the times of not seeing each other for weeks...or months..or decades...or a century..were behind them, but they found that being apart made coming back together sweeter (and perhaps prevented one of their epic spats that came up every decade or so).

So when the angel Jophiel appeared before the demon Crowley, he was alone, just outside the protections in place around his Mayfair flat. They appeared in a dramatic puff of smoke, as one does, and holding the _other_ flaming sword, the one that hadn’t been given to a certain Principality, so hot it flickered in shades of blue.

The name they called Crowley burned the demon’s ears in the most literal way, and almost broke the careful layer of cool he preferred to keep up at all times.

“Jophiel,” Crowley drawled back as blood dripped from his left ear, sliding to his neck. “Been a while. Done any good punishing lately? Bit of smiting? Driving a human or two out of a garden?”

Jophiel’s eyes were bottomless, their face expressionless. Around them, the humans slowed and skipped, like a broken tape. Even the setting sun shivered over the hazy horizon of buildings and smog. The angel’s wings spread behind them, blotches of red like blood among the white. They repeated that name through smiling lips, and Crowley couldn’t keep his hands from clapping over his ears, couldn’t bite back the moan of pain.

He has forgotten it. His lips could no longer form it.

If the pain wasn't crackling so through his head and down his spine, he would have considered marking it down to show his angel later. _Did you know me? Were we-_

 _“This is your punishment, may you and the angel prefer damnation,”_ the angel said, their voice resonating _inside Crowley’s head,_ but Crowley managed to grit out, “Always been a melodramatic bastard, haven’t you?” before the sun skipped, and his ears bled, and Jophiel disappeared with a roll of thunder like mocking laughter.

 _“Aziraphale,_ ” Crowley breathed, and staggered painfully to his Bentley as ethereal magic pulsed around him.

**\--London, 1996--**

The little angel didn’t go away.

Aziraphale eyed her and Crowley hissed, or Crowley drawled and Aziraphale fluffed up, but Siriel just kept inviting herself over to the bookshop as if they were immortal beings who _liked_ visitors. Which, of course, they weren’t. Which is why Aziraphale set out tinned biscuits (gourmet, he had standards) and not fresh, and only used the everyday tea set instead of the really nice one when she popped in at tea time. And Crowley -

Well, Crowley always had liked people more than Aziraphale did, for all that his job ordered him to cause trouble. In fact, understanding how humans ticked was an important factor of proper tempting (until an 11 year old kid made him reconsider his entire life’s choices, and he’d semi-retired, anyway).

“He said we needed to stop ‘messin around’ with them,” he told Siriel as he introduced her to the intricacies of _Doctor Who_ and its relative importance in the cultures of the Isle. Aziraphale was dozing on his knee. “So we’ve tried not to.”

Siriel frowned. “But I’ve been sent down to spread miracles,” she protested, pausing in her nibbling on a digestive. It was either very early or very late, depending on one'spoint of view, and her notebook was a flurry of notes about this Doctor and that Doctor and The Doctor Who Looks Like Crowley, a Bit. Night times were for pop culture.

“You’re still on the clock,” Crowley reminded her. “We’re not. We were secretly fired after being cursed for screwing up the end of the world, remember? Besides, Heaven doesn’t exactly listen to the Antichrist when it comes to policy.”

Siriel had learned that the best way to learn juicy details about Armageddon was to ask a question in the midst of one of Aziraphale or Crowley's wondering philosophical lectures or the minutiae of _Golden Girls_ trivia. They each tended to pause from time to time, as if expecting someone to interrupt with an opposing view. 

She never did, of course. She didn't _know_ enough to do much more than argue Rose Nyland's relative intelligence with Crowley (he claimed she was a hidden genius; Siriel - and apparently Aziraphale - disagreed).

"Ah. Yes, that old argument," the angel said the morning she mentioned it, "you'll never convince that stubborn serpent, even though everyone knows the brilliant one is Dorothy."

Which is how she learned that the former Principality had watched the entire series as well, at the demon’s insistence. She supposed it was easier to keep an eye on one's nemesis by keeping them close; she marked that information down for later, one the assumption Hell would provide her with one eventually.

She stopped by in the daytime and surreptitiously tried to undermine Aziraphale’s various “weird smells so you don’t want to stay here” miracles, which always earned her the stink-eye from one angel and a look of appreciation from one store snake (“He forgets I can’t just turn my tongue off all day because of this undamned ethereal curse!”). “I understand the idea,” she said to the angel, “but you have to smell it, too.”

“I never activate my sense of smell in the main shop, dear girl,” the angel replied, and waved away her little attempt. The fact that he could, even with his miracles so limited by the curse, was extremely frustrating. She posited, in her secret notebook, that this was due to the singular situation of one human space holding an angelic corporation for so long (she titled the resultant essay notes “A Study of Angelic Domain: Ethereal Powers in Long Term Connection to Earthly Constructs and the Effects Thereof”).

She had more success when she pulled a book on snakes off the shelf and said, trying to sound as gentle as Raphael when an angel came in injured, “Crowley says he can’t turn his sense of smell off.”

Aziraphale froze.

He froze, and raised one plump hand to his chest, breath momentarily catching. “Crowley..” he repeated softly. “Crowley said?”

“Yes?” Siriel answered, confused by the strength of the response. He was usually more mild mannered, as long as you weren’t trying to buy a book or talking about getting his store snake removed from the shop, as the occasional human did during her visits. Then he was terrifying. But this response was something entirely different.

The next day, the shop smelled of fresh air and green things, and Aziraphale was walking through it with the demon’s heavy coils wrapped around his shoulder and waist, tongue flicking happily into the air. That tea time, Siriel earned her first proper smile - broad and full of sunlight - and fresh-baked biscuits from the closest bakery. She found she very much wanted both again in the future.

And so, she carried the occasional simple message from night to day, day to night. Nothing too personal, nothing incriminating, usually a wry observation from Crowley or a mild complaint from Aziraphale; but it was enough to see another side of her mentors than she usually did.

And she listened to them talk about each other, and felt the strangest ache in her chest, the sort that shouldn’t be there. It concerned her, but she decided against returning to Heaven to have her corporation checked over; what if they asked in what situation she was developing this ache? She couldn’t just tell them Upstairs that she was hanging about the forbidden bookshop, taking lessons from a Cursed Principality and the Originator of Sin.

“Listen, next time you come by, go by this bakery two streets over and get the cherry coffee cake, Angel’ll talk about anything you want through a minimum of two slices,” Crowley might say, his lips curled into a smile that lacked the usual sarcastic bite. Or, “Aziraphale loves collecting books, not selling them, but he’ll never admit it to your face, the little bastard” (which led to a bit of a philosophical discussion on whether all angels are technically bastards, as the Almighty never married, but that was one of the few times the demon cut her off, sending her away before the conversation could ramble properly; her last sight of him had been at the table, resting his eyes against Aziraphale’s feathers as the owl hooted gently).

On the other side, the angel would whisper when Crowley was sleeping, curled up in a special chair by the sunniest window: “But Crowley is such a dear about the ducks - don’t tell you I said so, he’ll grumble - when he’s not drowning them” or “He will drink literally anything alcoholic and it is terrifying to behold,” but he’d smile as he said it, sipping on a fine wine he’d pulled from the back for Siriel to try. On the whole, she found alcohol unpleasant to smell and taste, and left Aziraphale to it. He told her she would expand and refine her palette in time, and shouldn't assume foods and beverages she didn't like at present couldn't appeal to her in the future. She was doubtful, but determined to take notes, just in case ("Angelic Senses Among Mortal Men: the Development of Preference in a First Year Principality" was the result of this personal study).

As the weeks passed and turned into months, she also ran across a few regular visitors to the shop: a witch who was friends with the demon, a friendly lady whose former profession was not to be discussed but who got on well with the angel, and once, a group of teenagers who liked both, led by a boy she never realized was the actual antichrist, despite his soft apology over not being able to help with the Curse.

Both Anathema and Pepper read her the riot act concerning what they’d do if Siriel even briefly considered causing trouble for the cursed pair. It was a fascinating new experience. Aziraphale looked both slightly embarrassed and secretly pleased by their protectiveness. Siriel couldn't personally imagine being close to humans, with their limited lifespans, but Crowley told her she couldn't interact with them regularly and not grow fond of a few here and there. They were thinking beings, after all.

Earth, she decided as Aziraphale started sending her on little field trips (while Crowley insisted she take a driving course), was simply filled with fascinating new experiences. She was definitely going to need a new notebook.

**\--Soho: November, 1991--**

The pain was blinding.

The street disappeared around Aziraphale as his bones stretched and snapped, a flood of agony so intense he could neither think nor speak. He’d never-was this _falling_? But demons couldn’t make an angel fall, that wasn’t how it worked-

“Crowley,” he bit out through clenched teeth. Power pulsed around him, dark and demonic, but he tried to push through it, reaching out with one message:

_Stay away, stay away, stay away-_

The demon standing over him laughed, white wings fluttering, red eyes sparkling. “Oh, he’s coming. He’s almost here. But don’t worry. All my pain is for you.” Their grin bled black ichor. “Your side took care of him.”

The bell rang on the heels of the familiar sound of the Bentley screeching to a stop, and Crowley’s voice - beloved, desired - called out, “Ang- _Dacarabia!”_

 _Oh_ , Aziraphale thought distantly, _so it has a name. Lovely. I’ll remember it when I smite it back to hell where it belongs._

Then his spine broke, and he screamed.

He felt Crowley’s panic, his fear, his guilt - the final unwarranted, because Aziraphale made his own choices, and he had chosen Earth, and Crowley, and love. Demonic power flew around him, one familiar, one not, and the strange one settled into his skin and soaked his feathers and siphoned his mind away.

_Crowley._

Crowley fell, snarling, and the other demon disappeared, laughing.

_Crowley._

His intelligence dulled, his thoughts, his memories, his beautiful, lovely _words_ , and he would have sobbed but he’d lost the vocal cords to make such a sound.

Crowley crawled over, gathered him close, whispered:

“Aziraphale, what have they done to you?”

But the angel couldn’t understand the words anymore, and only buried his wide, nocturnal eyes in the familiar black coat in search of the only comfort left in the world.

**\--London: February 1997--**

The demon showed up almost a year late, without Starbucks (not that she would understand the reference; though more up to date than Heaven, Hell had yet to purchase a television to replace their old film set up and was only dimly aware the humans were filming in color now). Of course, when every clock in your previous workplace only pointed to TOO LATE, it was difficult to meet deadlines topside, so she didn’t feel too bad about it.

Sure, there was an angel up here somewhere who’d replaced the one who’d screwed up the Apocalypse, and yes, she was meant to locate them (rumor suggested the angel had also chosen a female style corporation, despite long-established research that there were certain social difficulties with the gender) and establish that they were Adversaries (she’d had a million warnings about fraternizing like the demon Crowley had, and where it had gotten him), but there was time. After all, the first set had done their jobs for over 6000 years. What was a few months compared to that?

It’d be fine. She could handle a single, inexperienced angel.

She wandered out of headquarterters with an odd reticence to her walk, born of spending millenia in the close confines of hell. There was so much space, even in the city. It was terribly unnerving.

“All right,” she said to the air, pushing dirty (figuratively only) blonde hair behind her ears and tugging on her pristine minidress (circa 1967) and moth-eaten overcoat (circa trash bin, 1993). “Let’s get out there and cause some trouble.”

Before she could start, however, trouble found her.

Art by [@Weeardo0 on tumblr!](https://weeardo0.tumblr.com/)

\----

“She is a lovely girl, but really, we’ve earned the afternoon off,” Aziraphale said as he set down the tea tray and settled on the sofa in the Mayfair flat. It was dreadfully modern, and looked as if it would be absolute torture on the fleshy bits, but it wouldn’t dare when the angel was over. Both Aziraphale and Crowley were very protective of Azirpahale’s softness, and so the hard and straight-lined sofa put all its non-sentient non-soul into feeling as plush and comfortable as any sofa has ever dared to be. And so, when Aziraphale reclined in it, he gave a pleased little sigh. He let one hand trail to the floor. “Come along, darling,” he urged (bossily, though he would be righteously offended to have it pointed out to him).

Crowley slithered up the arm to lounge comfortably on Aziraphale’s soft belly, his chin resting just over the beating of his corporation’s heart. _Do you remember doing this before?_ He wanted to ask. _Just a few times, you with your tea and me with my naps? When I looked human and so did you?_

Aziraphale’s warm chest moved with a soft laugh, and his fingertips stroked Crowley’s dark head. “I remember when we were figuring this out. I was terribly surprised to find how lovely tucking my head under your chin is,” he said, almost in answer (though it never could be, he couldn’t _hear_ , they couldn’t _speak_ , but oh, 6000 years was so long to know someone). “You’re such a pointy thing.”

Crowley lifted his head and hissed. That was just uncalled for! He was not _pointy_. He was...trim. He’d always leaned toward a slender corporation; made it easier to sneak around, moving building markers and the like.

Aziraphale smiled, that little bit of a bastard smile that did things to Crowley in any form, and said, “You know I quite adore you in any form, darling,” and snakes couldn’t blush but Crowley came close.

They'd had only a few months to explore the new edges of their relationship after Aziraphale's romance-novel assisted declaration of romantic intent, but they'd enjoyed the process. Kisses here and there, Aziraphale's arm tucked in Crowley's as they walked, Crowley taking complete advantage of his now open access to angelic warmth ("Shut up, I'm ssstealing ethereal power, not cuddling" "Whatever you say, dear"); it had all been a new and interesting adventure for two beings who had lived a very long time and experienced a great many things.

Only a few months, and then the Curse.

The snake sighed all down his long body, and the angel responded by reading aloud from his latest acquisition, a gift from the Them. Given the topic, a fictional account of a group of scientists studying possible alien life underwater, Crowley suspected it came from Brian. It wasn't half bad, and Crowley did love the sound of that voice.

He was so comfortable that he attempted to ignore the first ominous frisson that shot along his spine. The second was stronger, and the third-

Crowley twitched so hard half his body slammed to the floor. Aziraphale's sharp cry of his name was muffled behind the warning going off in Crowley's head.

_Demon. A new demon._

He raised his head instinctively, letting out a low, steady hiss.

"My dear, what-?"

Crowley made a beeline for the door, thumping against the side and cursing internally at being forced to act like someone's pet dog. The only thing worse was trying to manipulate the door handle with his teeth. Aziraphale oofed as he stood from the sofa, walking up to stand beside him. “Outside?” he asked, concerned. “ _Now_ , Crowley? So close to sunset?”

Crowley would have rolled his eyes if only they were designed in a way to properly allow him to. He had to settle for rolling his head in the style of some of the more obnoxious teenagers he’d seen in the last decade or so. The angelic _tsk_ behind him let him know it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Shall I come with you? No? Well...do be careful.” Warm lips pressed a kiss to Crowley’s serpentine head. “I would be heartbroken if you managed to get discorporated. How long was it last time? Six years to clear the forms?” Crowley ignored the raised eyebrow. 

They both knew it was Crowley who introduced human-style paperwork and triplicate forms to Hell. It was both one of his more brilliant and most self-sabotaging plans.

Instead, he slithered out the door, putting on just a bit of demonic power to move faster than a snake his size should.

He had a demon to catch.

\----

The demon managed a solid mile of wandering before a snake stopped her right on the sidewalk.

The timing, as it worked out, was incredibly fortuitous. In the usual fashion, Hell had discarded good sense for a sense of drama, and released her into London as the sun was setting and the shadows lengthened in a neighborhood only the most foolish tourist would ever walk through. She wasn’t afraid, of course, she was from _Hell_ , but she was startled when the giant snake rose before her, fangs glistening in the dying light of the sun. The creature pulsed with demonic energy. Or - no -

With _angelic_ energy? That was imposs-

Ah, of course.

“Hey,” she said, lifting one hand to wave. “How’s it goin’? You must be Crowley. Awesome, ‘cause I can tell you you’re fired and I’m here to replace you without having to find that bookshop. I’m absolute shit at maps, so thanks for the-”

A crack rent the air, then another, and the ethereal white magic surrounding the Serpent pulsed white-hot as muscles and bones broke and reformed. The demon took a step back, uncomfortable at the hint of divine ecstasy, her stomach roiling at the press of miracles.

Everyone knew Crowley had done (something?) wrong, but this seemed...a bit much. Angelic power absolutely _stank_ of holiness!

Crowley straightened, yellow eyes glaring even as his body finished snapping into place, his black suit jacket half-formed. “Name,” he snarled, split tongue flickering past his lips.

The demon considered this. They had True Names of course, but one didn’t go telling everybody those. Crowley certainly wasn’t his. “Mae.”

Crowley’s eyebrow lifted. His last sharp cheekbone popped into place. “That can’t be the full name.”

Mar sighed and rolled her eyes. “Maestopholes, of the seventeenth court, newly-” she stopped as the demon Crowley gave in to a fit of demonic snickers. “Listen dude, I didn’t name myself. Take it up with the boss, _Crawly_.”

Crowley coughed into his hand. “Touche.” He shifted his feet, and his own energy pulsed in the shadows around them, all tangled with gold. The stance was intimidating and, despite herself, Mae was mildly intimidated. She’d been clearly told that Crowley’s power was “handled” as part of the Curse. This felt like the opposite of “handled” to her. She’d file a complaint, if it wouldn’t be used to torture her with papercuts later. “Listen, kid,” he said, voice low. “You stay away from the book shop and my angel, and I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

“Sure,” Mae answered in what was obviously a lie, because demons didn’t tell the truth. It was literally in their job description (and not even in any of the tiny print hidden inside random dots on random i’s). “Cool beans.”

Serpentine eyes narrowed at her and then, to her astonishment, the Serpent of Eden relaxed minutely. _He believed her._

What a strange old world, where demons go around believing each other.

“And watch out for the other angel,” Crowley warned. “She knows her stuff when it comes to smiting and...defeating...and….ssstuff.”

Mae narrowed her own deep red eyes this time. Hmm.

Liar.

Her smile wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Las Vegas casino owner as he handed the marked deck to the dealer at the high rollers’ table at Blackjack. “We’ll see.” 

“If you do, you’ll deal with more than just her,” Crowley told her, danger rumbling under his voice. He turned on his heel. “And get some proper clothes, you look ridiculous.”

Mae glanced down at her worn, mud stained combat boots. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Crowley agreed, and swept down the street in a swirl of shadow and smoke.

 _Nice exit_ , Mae though appreciatively. _That there’s an old school trick, from the days a demon could be properly demonic. I’ll have to pop by the bookshop_ , her teeth gleamed, _and see what else I can learn._

She whistled as she walked away, miniskirt riding up again, knees fairly freezing. Every single note managed to be off-key, to the point that the tune could only be recognized as “vaguely Pat Benetar-like.” Her knowledge of music was rusty, though she didn’t know it; demons Earthside had refused to bring down any more tapes after radio stations abandoned all music that wasn’t Mariah Carey’s “Someday.” Reportedly, the high pitched screaming reminded them too much of the torture rooms. 

So this was London, she mused, and her adversary was already angeling around, spreading light and miracles. Not bad.

This should be fun.

\--------------

The moment a minor demon appeared at the door, snapping gum and dressed in clothing that appeared to have been attacked by a beaver (Crowley would know it was fashion off but about a decade; Aziraphale saw it as a sign of problematic rodents), Aziraphale sighed, turned and said to the air, “ _Really,_ darling?”

The snake, who was suspiciously not in sight, didn’t so much as hiss in response.

Mae grinned at him, bright lipstick and smudged eyeshadow. “So you’re the angel,” she said. One canine was a little too long and a little too crooked.

“Yes,” he agreed, “and you’re a demon.” Aziraphale refused to budge, softness blocking the entrance with all the power of an iron door. “What can I do for you? Briefly, please, I need to have a serious conversation with a snake.”

“I wasn’t invited, if you’re worried,” Mae answered lazily. “In fact, your demon told me to stay away.” She popped a bubble and Aziraphale resisted the urge to shut the door in her face. Rude! Unpleasant! _Demon!_

Really, he lived day in and out with a perfectly polite demon, so that was no excuse. (Well, not perfectly polite, even when he couldn’t talk, but still-)

Aziraphale felt ruffled, like invisible feathers were puffing up in irritation. “Then you should listen to him. You’re not welcome here.”

Mae poked out her lower lip, canine poking over. “Playing favorites?” She sniffed the air. “This place stinks of more angels than your old, dusty, retired grodiness.” He eyes flashed, quite literally. “Smells like Principality.”

 _Grodiness?!_ Aziraphale scowled darkly. He most certainly did not stink; his cologne was a classic favorite. “Yes, well,” he took a step back, “that’s not my concern-”

“But it _is_ ,” the demon argued, one booted foot stopping the door. “Because that principality is my business, and as long as this is the best place to find it, I’ll be …” another grin, “around.”

Aziraphale sighed. Did she really think she was at all intimidating? They’d clearly been watching B movies for training in Hell again. One of Crowley’s better ideas. “Yes, of course, of course, just stay outside and be a good demon.”

It took very little effort on his part to close the door firmly in her face. He turned, hands on hips. “You will not hide successfully for long, you old serpent. And I expect the best reptile charades of all time to explain why you didn’t tell me your replacement is Earthside.”

If there was any hiss in response, it was so soft even angelic ears couldn’t catch it.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**\-----June, 2000---**

It was the middle of the night when an angel and demon sneaked through the front door of a flat in Mayfair. 

This was no small feat, given that the flat was protected by a fired Principality, the Serpent of Eden (freelance), two curses, and ethereal avoidance spells set up by both heaven and hell. But Siriel, Principality, and Maestopholes, her Assigned Archenemy, were extremely determined.

And one of them was extremely intelligent.

“I’ve got this, just, get out of the way-”

“You’ve got brains, but I’ve got _power_ , you can’t use your diploma to knock the door down-”

“You are fully aware I’m only in my first semester and you keep causing trouble and making me miss my classes!” 

“Shhh why are you always so loud, let me just-”

The door crashed open and what appeared to be two young women fell face-first onto a spotless and very hard ceramic tile.

“Well, well, well,” came a snakey voice. “What have we here?” It sounded lazy and satisfied, and was completely undermined when the owl swooped in, hooting loudly and beating Mae with its wings. “Angel! Aw, c’mon-”

And so, Crowley, Aziraphale, Mae, and Siriel were together again, for the first time in four years. 

Crowley didn’t help the visitors off the floor, nor did he shoo Aziraphale from giving them a good pecking and going over with his talons. He did gather the owl up before he could have some kind of coronary event, and gently stroked (and perhaps hid a kiss among the feathers of) the tawny head as Siriel and Mae dragged each other to a standing position and limped to the uncomfortable seats at his designer counter. 

“Didn’t consider knocking?” he asked acidly. Coffee began to percolate at the snap of his fingers. 

The look Mae and Siriel gave each other indicated that, no, that simple path had not occurred to them. Crowley sighed, let Aziraphale give him an ear nibble, and set the owl on his perch. Aziraphale fluffed and presented and threatened and hooted angrily to himself as Crowley pulled down some stoneware mugs. 

“You’re both idiots,” he informed them as he handed the mugs over. He didn’t offer cream or sugar. The aroma from his own mug smelled very suspiciously of chocolate. “What do you want? It’s been a while.” He gave Siriel a rather nasty look at this.

Not, of course, that Crowley had _missed_ the nosy little angel with her endless questions, or that he’d been curious what had happened to the mess of a demon. It had been _Aziraphale_ who’d been concerned when their intermittent guest just up and disappeared (angels being more soft-hearted, or so Crowley liked to tell himself when he was staring out the window and slither-pacing with worry while Aziraphale calmly sipped his tea). _Aziraphale_ had fussed and worried and wondered if they’d taught Siriel enough to survive in the world, and to grumble about Mae stealing her away for “adventures and thwarting.” Crowley had been _fine_. His late-night pacing was all about wearing a line in Aziraphale’s ancient carpet. Naturally.

It certainly hadn’t been lonely, as the Them grew up, and Anathema and Newt had children and didn’t travel into the city as much. They were humans. It was to be expected.

They’d been able to sense the other two were alive and somewhere on the island, but nothing beyond that. Aziraphale could track Mae, being a demon, and Crowley, Siriel (best way to avoid your enemy, or meet them for lunch, after all). Now here they were: an angel in a silk peasant blouse and fashionable shoes and a demon in ripped jeans, boots, and a Metallica top, artfully mussed. They looked better at least, though Aziraphale would worry about the rats that must be ripping Mae’s pants to bits.

Aziraphale’s understanding of modern fashion had grown even worse since the Curse.

“We want to leave England,” Mae pronounced, head thrown back, arms crossed, an image of certainty.

“Well,” Siriel amended, “the Isle in general. Not just England.”

Mae snorted. “All the same thing,” she muttered, but only quietly, as she had actually learned a lesson two years before on a visit to Scotland. 

Crowley ignored this. “So do it. What, you need me to water your plants?” 

A miasma of terror rose from those bits of greenery in the immediate vicinity. Siriel looked startled; Mae looked impressed. “We . . . can’t,” Siriel said delicately. “Upstairs has grown rather finicky about free-range angels, especially principalities.”

“But Aziraphale was the first,” Crowley argued, "they never forced him to stay in one place. Even after he opened the bookshop."

“Yes! And of course he was often the only one actually on earth. But the rules are more, ah, stringent now, with more angels Earthside.” This came as news to Crowley. Other than Aziraphale, angels hated earth and avoided it whenever they could. Heaven was clearly taking the failed apacolypse very seriously. She bounced a little on her toes. “So I have to stay within my territory-”

“And, because she’s a wussy little baby who won’t break the rules, so do I,” Mae pushed in. “And I’m sick of it. I wanna kick her arse all over the damn world, not just up and down this dinky island.” 

Crowley pressed a hand to his temple. He remembered a time, long, long ago, when he was immune to headaches. Those were better days, even with all the smiting and fighting and humans in muddy caves. “You are here, in my house, when I could be happily asleep, to complain because you can only fight each other here?”

They nodded. 

“You like fighting each other?”

The grins somehow matched, though Siriel’s was angelic and Mae’s came with a long, crooked canine on the right side. 

“It’s so educational!”

“She’s not half-bad, really.” A sneer. "She's worse. But she's a living travel encyclopedia worth taking advantage of."

“And,” Crowley asked tiredly, “what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Well see,” Mae said, expression sly, “we have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Siriel corrected, “and I believe it will lead to a positive outcome for us all.”

Crowley’s yellow eyes narrowed dangerously. “A plan,” he said, deadpan.

She nodded enthusiastically. Mae rolled her eyes and thumped her boots on Crowley’s immaculate sofa table. "To get you two un cursed and therefore reinstated." Crowley waved a hand and they slammed to the floor, much to her clear surprise. “She has card things.”

“Visual aids! I have visual aides!” Siriel pulled up a bag and started digging through it. If the angel’d had a tail, it would have wagged. 

Crowley sighed. At least he could listen and then turn her down so Aziraphale wouldn’t have to. His angel liked to appear nice at all times, inner bastard notwithstanding.

Siriel pulled out an easel. Crowley sank deeper into the unnaturally soft surface of his modernist sofa. He’d deserve a commendation from his angel for this one.

\-------The Plan-------

Siriel had a theory. 

She couldn’t exactly back her theory up with science, as science and ethereal powers didn’t mix, but she could back it up with observation.

Thus, she had observed the following important details:

The bookshop was protected by a curse from heaven (designed to keep angels from seeing it) and a curse from hell (designed to keep demons from seeing it), in an attempt to limit any influence Aziraphale and Crowley may have had on their replacements. BUT

1b. There were also distinctive protection wards that had been in place much longer, both ethereal and carrying the mark of Aziraphale’s True Name and occult and carrying (confirmed by Mae, since demonic names weren’t exactly healthy for angels) the mark of Crowley’s True Name. 

1c. The interaction of so many ethereal and occult forces should have blown the place sky-high, but instead the powers had all found a mysterious way of getting along in the small area of the bookshop.

To a greater extent, the powers within the bookshop also coexisted peacefully. Both Aziraphale and Crowley had clearly added wards over the years, until the atmosphere of the shop was so heavy that even mortals sensed it to a certain degree. The removal of Aziraphale’s bad smell spells had done nothing to encourage humans to enter and hang around the shop unless they were very determined. To Siriel and Mae, it felt a bit like a heavy fog, almost damp against their skin. AND YET-

2b. The two different powers worked seamlessly together as one unit to protect the shop. 

Mae insisted that Crowley carried a degree of ethereal power with him at all times and

Siriel knew that Aziraphale carried a significant portion of Crowley’s occult magic on him at all times. 

Conclusion: While ethereal and occult forces are designed to be at odds, prolonged exposure (the longest in history, as certainly no other angel and demon had spent more than minutes in each other’s company) had allowed Aziraphale and Crowley to not only adapt to each other’s powers, but combine them subconsciously. They were an angel with a dose of permanent demonic influence and a demon always carrying a bit of angelic miracle with them.

Therefore: Siriel theorized that Crowley could enter heaven for some period of time before being revealed as a trespasser, and Aziraphale could do the same in hell. 

They could, if her (utterly unproven but optimistically presented) theory was correct, enter each other’s opposite realms in search of a cure. After all, Aziraphale’s curse was hellish, and Crowley’s was from heaven. It was simply a matter of deciding on the correct angel and demon to visit in search of assistance in breaking their curse, making them more available to assist their replacements in getting out of the country.

Simple!

\-------Twenty-three minutes later------- 

“Absolutely not!”

Crowley was on his feet, and he was pacing. 

It was a special sort of pacing, something distinctly snake-like in his movements that he’d mostly overcome with normal walking about. He hissed under his breath and pulled at his hair, wrapping it around his fingertips. “You’re insssane! I won’t allow it!”

Mae sneered nastily. “I thought you were the demon who helped stop the Apocalypse, not some low-level loser under Hell’s thumb.”

“Then you’re an idiot assss well! I wasss barely there!” he argued, quite at odds with his usual manipulation of the facts. He had, after all, been _trying_ to stop the Apocalypse, even if all he did in the end was help his angel argue semantics. “And this isssn’t just me! You’re talking about taking Aziraphale to Hell!” 

Never. Never. He’d never allow it. Aziraphale was enough of a bastard to be interesting, but Azirpahale was essentially decent, essentially angelic, and hell would-hell would-

“With me to keep an eye on him!” Mae shot back, leaping to her own feet and trying to look Crowley in the eye. It would have worked better were her corporation a solid ten and a half centimeters taller. 

“You? You expect me to trust some random nobody to protect _my angel in hell?!”_ Crowley snarled, split tongue flicking angrily. He straightened, lifting his chin. He was thin and not terribly tall in the modern day (humans would keep getting taller), but he was a demon, and the Serpent, and he was _furious._

Power rolled around him, hell red and black, but he didn’t see what Siriel and Mae could: heaven’s blue and pearl. Siriel surreptitiously tried to get a video on her new digital camera.

“Get,” he hissed angrily, “out of my house.”

Siriel glanced toward the angelic owl, who hooted and soared to land on Crowley’s shoulder, sensing his demon’s distress. He fluffed up and sharp nails slid from among the feathers. “We-you can’t decide for both of you. You can’t decide for him,” she argued. “We’ll tell him-”

“And he’ll say no to this nonsense as well!” Crowley crossed his arms. "Aziraphale is the smartest person I know, and he’ll see-”

“REASON!” Siriel shouted, even as Mae grabbed her arm and shoved her at the door, even as the plants shook, and Crowley’s power curled through the air, and the owl that was an angel in the day let out a sound like a scream. 

Power roiled down the hall as they slammed the door behind them and ran, that dangerous tangle of heavenly and hellish nipping at their heels until they were out on the street. 

“We ask the angel tomorrow,” Mae said, still too new to her corporation to be properly winded. 

Siriel scowled, the expression strange on her cherubic face. “Yes. Yes we do.”

\------An Angelic Aside-----

Siriel hadn't intended to disappear.

She'd grown fond of both Aziraphale and Crowley, though she would appropriately deny either if pressed, and enjoyed all they had to teach her. It was just this human concept of time that had tripped her up.

In Heaven, time meant almost nothing at all. After all, Heaven was eternal, and so were Angels, and very little changed upstairs. The Archangels were and always had been in charge. Jobs were assigned and held for millennia. Fashion was still trapped in the first century BCE/BE, that being the last time a significant number of angels had gone to earth in the excitement over Yeshua. 

So when Mae had finally arrived and started causing trouble among the populace, it had rather required a great deal of Siriel’s attention. After all, to defeat the enemy, one had to know the enemy. But Mae refused to settle into any pattern or a recognizable modus operandi, which was exceedingly frustrating for someone with an organized and scientific mind like Siriel’s.

By the time they'd had their third face down in a holy place (a mosque this time, which had proven kinder to Mae’s feet) more than a year had passed, but Siriel had honestly thought it had only been a month or two.

Time. It was so tricky. If she'd had the hang of it, she'd have sent a postcard. As it was, only Crowley's acerbic greeting hinted at anything amiss until she bothered to check the date on a newspaper. She'd been considering a letter of apology while thwarting Mae's determination to interrupt all Welsh broadcasts in the city of Cardiff when her Nemesis had called for a truce in the interests of causing trouble on a more international scale.

Siriel did apologize, properly, about two years later, when it was all over and it didn't matter anymore. Better to err on the side of manners, she figured, as an angel.

\------June, 2000, The Next Day-----

“It’s quite a clever idea, isn’t it?” Aziraphale mused with interest. They were in a cafe in Mayfair, a little plot of Siriel’s to get Aziraphale away from the snake broodily napping in the flat. Aziraphale took a bite of rich chocolate cake. Siriel, squeamish about human digestion of food, drank tea. Mae, with great interest, had her own slice of this “devil’s food cake,” and if the noises she was making were any indication, she approved of it. 

Siriel beamed as she folded up her small easel and gathered her visual aides. “Yes, I think so! And I believe it could work!”

Aziraphale hummed around his fork. “Or, Crowley and I could end up dead and the two of you in trouble.”

“‘M not afraid of a little trouble!” Mae interrupted in a spray of dark crumbs. “‘Sides, she’s annoying, but she’s smart.” She pointed a thumb at Siriel. “I bet it’ll work.”

One blond eyebrow rose. “And since we’re discussing this here, rather than at the flat, you don’t want Crowley to know about it. So. You must have spoken to him last night.” He frowned thoughtfully, trying to find something sensible in the haze of his owl memories. “He was angry. There was….”

“He pitched a fit,” Mae offered. “Big ol’ hissy fit, complete with the hissy.”

Aziraphale gave her a cold look. He personally found Crowley’s hissing both endearing and worrisome, as it indicated strong emotion on his part. “He said no.”

Siriel tried a smile, “Well, he didn’t say no to the plan _as such_ , he just told us to leave because he wouldn’t...ah...well, he didn’t want you in hell, did he? And...that you would say no.”

Aziraphale leaned back, adjusting the softness of his jumper over his stomach. “I see.” He closed his eyes.

He _ached_ to talk to Crowley, to really talk to him, to tell him that yes, it was dangerous, and perhaps it was foolhardy, but-

But he missed Crowley, in a way he knew even Crowley didn’t understand. Crowley had some degree of awareness whenever they were together, but Crowley’s nights were a messy haze for Aziraphale. The demon’s voice was slipping his memory. “Tell him,” he said slowly, because Crowley the optimist had said no but Aziraphale was the stubborn one, “tell him I’ll do it. He can go to heaven or not, but it’s time we did something, instead of languishing pointlessly for the next 6000 years.”

Siriel beamed and opened her mouth, but Mae cut her off with a sharp gesture. “He won’t believe us. We’ll need proof.”

For a long moment, there was silence, save the soft click of a small silver fork against the chipped dessert plate. Aziraphale closed his eyes, drew to mind yellow eyes and a devil’s smile, doublets and hose, and quoted softly, “ I would not wish Any companion in the world but you, Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of.”

Mae scowled. “What’s that rot?”

Aziraphale straightened his back and glared primly at her. “William Shakespeare, The Tempest. We saw it together, when it was new.” He softened minutely. “He’ll know it’s from me.” 

It had been truly a lovely afternoon, sitting side by side, hands occasionally touching, sharing grapes like old friends while Crowley mocked the groundlings and Aziraphale elbowed him in the side with increasing fervor so he could hear, for goodness’ sake, dear boy.

“And you’ll do it, no matter what he decides?” Mae demanded. “Won’t he be pissed?”

“Extremely, but we’ve survived spats in the past, and ‘courage,’” he wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin, the cloth catching slightly on his hands, roughened without their regular manicures, “‘is the standing army of the soul which keeps it from conquest, pillage, and slavery.’” (Henry Van Dyke, “Courage”) His hands curved, as if wrapping around an ancient sword, and more than one human customer looked nervously their way as the friendly looking gentleman suddenly made the hairs prickle on the backs of their necks. They’d never been cowards, the two of them, and yet they’d allowed heaven and hell to take away what was uniquely, totally theirs. “Tell Crowley it’s time.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you realize the chapter you posted two weeks ago didn't post at all and has been sitting in draft hell.
> 
> ///Whoops///

**\--That Bookshop With the Giant Snake: June, 2000**

Siriel adjusted the thick scarf around her neck, trying not to wince at the weight or the low, angry hiss of a demon who absolutely hated his disguise.

"Do stop fussing, Darling," Aziraphale admonished from the other side of the bedroom. "Scarves do not hiss."

The hiss grew louder and a tongue flickering against her neck made Siriel jump a full meter in the air, where she hovered a moment before dropping back to her feet with a thud. The familiar sound of Crowley's snakey snicker came from just below her ear, perfectly audible despite the tube of crocheted cloth wrapped around him.

"I ought to drop you," she muttered.

"I'd like to see you try," Aziraphale answered in that ultra polite tone that meant he was feeling especially sharp at the moment. He was protective of his snake. He, meanwhile, frowned with distaste at the ratty blue coat Mae had shoved him into, a size too small and smelling distinctly of sulphur. The mismatched t-shirt (he had never, in his life, worn such a thing, despite Crowley giving him a novelty one every few years, usually having to do with Christmas and being naughty) and stained slacks were no kinder to his sensibilities.

Mae horrified him further by popping an Alpine hat on his head, ill-fitted and with a depressed feather that was probably pink once upon a time. "Keep sneering like that, and everybody'll believe you're one of us," she said with an obnoxious smirk.

Aziraphale sent her a Look, which she would have bravely ignored if he didn't tend to inadvertently back his Looks with Grace. As it was, she scowled and scuttled back a bit with a hint of a low growl. Aziraphale sharpened the line of his tattered lapel with a hint of self satisfaction.

"Asshole angel," Mae muttered. "Don't know why I'm bothering to help you."

"In order to help yourself, my dear girl," Aziraphale said almost comfortingly, rather used to occasionally bumping the ego of a demon, even if his was decidedly nicer, "a properly demonic reason."

Mae snorted loudly but only said, "We need to get going." She glanced at Siriel. “You got the snake? So we can leave already?”

Siriel straightened her shoulders and gently adjusted the blue “scarf” hanging heavily around her neck. “Yes. You remember the-”

“Yes, yes yes,” Mae groused, pushing Aziraphale in the small of the back (the absolute _nerve_ , he was not used to being manhandled like this) and out the door. “I know, don’t tell me for a millionth time. Demons are actually sentient, intelligent beings, you know.”

Siriel’s scarf hissed agreement. Angels did forget that, sometimes. Not _his_ of course, not since at least the Tower of Babel, but others.

**\--The Road to Hell--**

The road to hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen, and Aziraphale found it very difficult to decide where to put his feet.

“It’s easier on skates,” Mae informed him, gliding along on her own, “but even in shoes, you gotta stop looking like you feel sorry for them. They earned this, you know. Think of all the sexual assignations and episodes of _Coronation Street_ they interrupted.”

Aziraphale sighed and lifted his eyes. Crowley had mentioned the road, of course, but he hadn’t expected the materials to have their eyes open. He felt rather like they were looking up his skirt, though he hadn’t worn one in hundreds of years. A minor miracle could have added spikes to his shoes or put ice skates on his feet - he wasn’t as graceful as Crowley, but he could manage - but any hint of his ethereal magic here could get them well and truly killed, and Crowley would never forgive him.

So he walked as normally as he could, slipping and sliding now and again. The unpleasant demon at his side did nothing to assist him. He suspected she was waiting for him to fall spectacularly so she could whip out that little camera of hers and take pictures. “You decided whom we’re going to see?” he asked, delicately touching the wall because he had to and most definitely not because he wanted to. There was a black mold there he was fairly certain would kill any human who accidentally wandered this way.

“Yeah.” She didn’t offer more information. Aziraphale sighed. Had Crowley ever been this literal? He didn’t think so.

“And it is…? I assume you didn’t say before,” he slipped and caught himself, “because Crowley wouldn’t approve.” Not that Crowley approved of this entire venture; apparently he still ranted about his angel going into hell. He’d always been a dear boy.

Mae snorted. “‘Course. He’d have another tantrum.” She snickered. Aziraphale was not amused. “We’re gonna see Orobas. He’s an asshole - I mean, he’s a demon, yeah? - but an honest asshole.”

Aziraphale mused on this as they stepped (finally) off the road and onto a stone floor. Several yards ahead of them was a single door, old fashioned enough to look like something straight our of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_. “Orobas...a high prince of hell,” he recited. His copy of Johann Weyer’s _Pseudomonarchia daemonum_ was, of course, a well-thumbed first edition. Mocking or not, the information in it was well-researched. “He never deceives anyone, and can tell the truth about past, present, or future.” He raised an eyebrow. It was a good choice, except, “A _prince_? Why not just go to Satan himself while we’re at it?”

“‘Cause he can lie,” Mae answered. She had, as yet, no real concept of sarcasm, which was a bit more refined an art than usually appeared in hell. “And he can’t really see the future, no one can. The rest is true, though.” She stopped in front of the heavy door, which was carved with traditional demon’s heads, long tongues lolling, eyes rolling. “So, if you’ve got enough,” she waved a hand vaguely over Aziraphale’s body, “demon in you,” she snickered at her own joke, but Aziraphale only sighed and refused to so much as chuckle (juvenile humor, truly), “to get through this door without being instantly discorporated, we should be home free.” She smiled, a glint of gold on one front tooth. “Ready?”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley, of yellow eyes and good cheekbones, dark hair and a sharp smile, slender fingers and warm skin, and said simply, “Yes.”

Maestopholes opened the door to hell and ushered him through with an impatient hand.

**\--The Elevator to Heaven--**

Heaven’s closest elevator took off from the back of St. Anne’s Church in SoHo through the tower that survived the Blitz. A spine-jarring muzak interpretation of Handel’s _Messiah_ began croaking tinnily through the speakers.

Crowley winced. Why in the world had Heaven picked that one up? Didn’t they know it was one of _his_?

“Almost there,” Siriel said quietly, one steadying hand on the coil over her shoulder. She sounded confident, but he could feel the minute tremble of nerves from her core. She shook out her wings - yellow and green, a bit like a budgie - and settled them against her back, seeming to take comfort from their presence. “It’s going to be fine. Raphael’s studio is easy to reach - well, all right, everywhere is easy to reach because it’s just a matter of imagining where you wish to be and connecting to the transportation miracle network, but-”

Crowley tuned out the ramble and focused on his breathing: that is to say, on not breathing at all. He didn’t need to, but he’d been doing it for so long that it took an effort of will to shut it off.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like being in Heaven - honestly, he was pretty sure he hadn’t loved being there even when he was an angel; mostly his impression of that time was _boredom_. It was sterile and plain and cloudy and nothing like the bookshop or even his flat these days. The fact that he could be smote-smoted? Smitten? He’d have to ask Aziraphale (don’t think about Aziraphale, don’t think about that he’s in hell and you just let it happen, don’t-) about the proper form, but anyway- that he could be either discorporated with no way to get a new body or straight out destroyed was also, understandably, of concern.

At least he had no fears that Raphael would smite him personally. Even demons knew Raphael was the one Archangel who wasn’t a complete arse. They’d done healing during the Rebellion, rather than having a laugh knocking angels into giant pits of sulphur. They’d even kept a few demons alive, or so the story went. Hastur was always claiming he’d been healed right before he fell, but Hastur was a liar.

To be fair, Hastur was a demon, so-

The muzak interpretation of _The Sound of Music_ ’s “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” came to a stop at exactly the correct moment, and the doors dinged as they slid open to reveal the white halls of heaven.

He flicked his tongue out surreptitiously. It smelled of a strange blend of “old lady with too much perfume” and antiseptic.

Lovely.

Siriel stepped out, calling a cheerful greeting to the angel sitting before the superfluous but aesthetically necessary pearly gate. As she did, a fission of _something_ shot along Crowley’s long spine, and he nearly lost his grip for a moment. It felt-

Powerful.

But not...painful.

It flickered along his scales and pulsed.

Well, this was new.

**b--Hell’s Halls--**

Entering hell was pretty anticlimactic in the end. Aziraphale stepped through, Mae followed, and the door slammed shut behind them before resounding with a theatrical locking noise.

“All right then,” Mae said, clapping her hands together, messily crimson nails filed to an unfashionable point. “Let’s go. Hope you brought your walking shoes.”

Aziraphale did not, in fact, own “walking shoes,” but he had insisted on wearing his own Barkers instead of the bedraggled trainers she’d attempted to force him into. “I take it there’s no transportation system here?”

Mae barked a laugh. “Only your feet, old man! And stop asking questions, one of the marquis will drag you off for some light torture for being curious.”

Something curdled in Aziraphale’s stomach. His Crowley, always curious, always trying out new things, who’d barely talked about hell in 6000 years, what must it have been like for him, all these millennia?

When this was done, he’d see to it Crowley never came here again.

They walked, and walked, and walked. And then, for variety, they walked some more. Hell appeared to be an endless hallway leading nowhere. Aziraphale’s feet started to ache. They passed another demon here and there, but Mae didn’t acknowledge them beyond elbowing them out of the way, so Aziraphale let them pass. Occasionally, a wall would light up with hellfire, and screams reverberated off the stone in a cacophony that sent shivers down the angel’s spine. It was all rather theatrical, yet he somehow had no doubt that every scream and cry for mercy was real, and mercy would never come.

He nearly ran into Mae when the demon stopped abruptly to open a ratty door on the right. She didn’t knock, and the door was clearly unlocked; it squealed along its hinges but opened easily enough. “Keep your mouth shut,” she muttered, “and let me do the talking,” and she pushed ahead of him into the room beyond.

It was an office, of sorts, if an office came with suspicious red chains on the walls and cheerful art of screaming faces instead of the standard vases of generic flowers. Behind a massive block of wood clearly serving as a desk sat a creature with red skin and glowing eyes, incongruously neatly dressed in a well-tailored suit. Their hair was pulled back in a sharp ponytail at the base of their neck, and they greeted the intruders with a friendly, sharp-toothed smile. “You’re late,” he said. “Get lost on the way, Maestopholes?”

Mae snorted and flopped into one of the spindly chairs opposite the desk. “You didn’t know I was coming. That’s the future.” She tacked on a belated, “Sire,” at the end.

Orobas chuckles, low and literally warm judging by the increase of temperature in the room. “Ah,” he argued, “but now it’s the present, so who’s to say?” His gaze shifted up. “Well, come on in and sit down. You’ve come an awfully long way, oh Angel of the Eastern Gate.” He grinned at the look of surprise on Aziraphale’s face. “May as well take a seat and stay a while.”

Aziraphale’s hands curled into fists in his pockets, and he felt his feet shifting into a stance his body could never forget, not even millennia after the Rebellion was over. His left palm itched for the heft of a sword, the coolness of holy flame. Orobas raised a hand, dark talons smoking slightly. “No reason to be so defensive,” he said. “I’ve followed Crawley’s-”

“ _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale all but growled, because it mattered so much to Crowley, to make Anthony J. Crowley himself. There had been a few times, before the Curse, that the angel had tried calling him “Anthony,” and his demon had very nearly combusted from blushing. “His name is Anthony Crowley.”

“Crowley’s, as you say, career with great interest. If I wanted to get you into trouble, I would have told Hell about your little Arrangement much earlier.” The smile stayed in place, but the eyes blazed a warning. “I have no interest in fighting you, because annoying His Supreme Highness is much more enjoyable for me, but if you choose to abuse my hospitality, I will be forced to defend myself, and you will be at an...extreme disadvantage.”

Aziraphale forced his muscles to relax, took some slow breaths. When he had first come to Earth, he had still been that angel - the general who Struck Down a dozen angels or more, who rallied troops and took the lead because he was created to do so. It had taken time, and patience, and desire, to learn how to soften his stance and form into what he wanted for himself. He could do this. “Yes,” he agreed, and moved to sit (gingerly, as he could see splinters that were doing excellent impressions of spikes) on one of the guest chairs. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Good. Now.” He grinned broadly again. “Please tell me you’re here about this ridiculous curse. I’ve been _waiting_.”

**\--Raphael’s Laboratory, Heaven--**

Crowley didn’t remember a great deal about heaven. In his heart of hearts, the one that thought maybe God did have a Plan and demons were a proper part of it and not just fallen angels, Crowley fancied making them forget heaven was more of a mercy than a punishment. Couldn’t miss what you didn’t remember. Now he wasn’t so sure, because he couldn’t imagine missing this misty, personality-less place and its constant instrumental adaptations of traditional hymns playing incessantly.

At least Raphael’s laboratory was interesting, and the angel themself greeted Siriel with fond regard. Or rather, Crowley amended, _her_ self. She'd chosen a clearly female appearance, unlike the more popular male or androgynous forms, and she wore a lab coat over a smart dress instead of the traditional robes. Long, dark hair hung in frankly impossible curls down her back and stayed out of her eyes by miracle alone. “Siriel, my dear! It’s been too long! You haven’t sent me any articles to edit!” She leaned down from her great height - even in this form, she was well over six feet and probably closer to seven, to press a kiss to Siriel’s cheek. Her great brown and gold wings fluttered behind her. “You haven’t stopped writing, have you?”

Siriel shook her head, chin making the cloth over Crowley’s back scratch uncomfortably. “I have several I’m working on, but I’ve been busy with other projects.” She took a slow breath. “I needed to...ah..talk to you in private? About one of them?”

Raphael raised a dark eyebrow over nearly black eyes. “Of course.” She waved a hand. “No one will bother us.”

Siriel nodded, then reached for Crowley’s middle and began to lift him awkwardly. He slithered automatically in her loose hold, and she let go with a yelp, sending him sprawling none too gracefully to the white tiles with a thump and a yelp of surprise.

“Oh dear.” Raphael reached out, and the moment her fingertips touched his head, a shock ran down his body and the aches of holding on and lying limp for so long disappeared in a flash of inadvertent pain. The archangel pulled her fingers away abruptly. “A demon?” she asked, frowning. “But there’s so much ethereal energy-”

Siriel beamed and launched into a visual aid free version of her theory. Crowley, who’d heard it all before, dedicated the time to squirming free of the humiliating scarf disguise. He glanced over his long form to check for damage, and his tongue flickered in surprise at what he saw - his scales, always gleaming with colors in just the right light, were practically glowing. And more than that, he felt-he felt like if he just stretched, if he could just remember the right process, the movements, he could-

Raphael’s laugh fluttered over him, soothing. “Of course you bring the Original Temptor to my lab,” she said indulgently. She knelt gracefully before him. “Crowley, is it? Have you come all the way here to help Siriel test her theories?”

“I most certainly did NOT!” Crowley groused. “As if I’d let my angel go to hell for-”

Then it hit him that he was _talking_ , and he nearly rolled over in shock. It was not at all the level of cool he preferred to project.

Raphael looked sharply at Siriel. “You’ve sent Aziraphale to hell?” she asked. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do if they find an Angel in Hell?”

Crowley was determined to act as if talking as a snake was something he did every day, and not something he hadn’t tried since he met a certain angel on The Wall just as time began. His whole body was screaming for him to remember how to change. “Not unlike what your lot would do if they find a demon up here,” he said. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten about Holy Water any more than angels have Hellfire.”

Raphael nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair," she admitted. "Well, you’ve made it this far, so at least the theory is sound. And I certainly detect a great deal of ethereal presence around you.” She reached out a hand and, without asking, rested it on the thickest portion of Crowley’s coils. “It _is_ his, isn’t it? He used to come to me, during the Rebellion, carrying one of his soldiers. I could feel the pain in him, but it was nothing my touch could cure.” Her fathomless eyes met Crowley’s. He felt her presence then, and realized what she could feel in him. “Oh,” she said softly. “And people say that’s impossible.”

Crowley jerked himself away, and the urge in him pulsed, and ran through him, and he changed - painlessly, naturally, with no snapping bones or piercing scales only-

Him, in his human form, crouching defensively on the tiles and immensely grateful his clothes had been miracled along with his body. Or not quite human - the great spread of his wings, shimmering blue-black like his scales, like the clever birds he took his name from - knocked him briefly off balance, and they flew wide automatically to keep him from tipping over.

Raphael smiled, golden skin crinkling beside her eyes. “Oh, it’s _you_ ,” she said, and then she spoke the first syllable of the name Jophiel had used against him, and he clapped his hands over his ears to ward off pain and blood. She stopped herself, then said sadly, “Oh, of course. I am sorry. Crowley, isn’t it?” She reached out and lifted him to his feet with effortless grace, gripping his upper arms in broad hands. He stumbled slightly when she let him go, the sting of her Grace lingering through his suit coat. Siriel touched his wrist, her expression worried.

Crowley took a slow breath, as he’d seen Aziraphale do to calm himself through the millennia. “Yes. Anthony J. Crowley.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers. It was impossible to feel anything but safe with Raphael, the Great Healer, but his comfort came from an odd place: those bottomless eyes were no more human than his own yellow ones. “I’m here because Heaven cursed me, and Az-” he stopped. “And I,” he said, suddenly realizing it was true, “decided it’s time to do something about it.”

**\--Office 667, Hell--**

“Of course it is,” Mae said, “why else would an angel be slinking into Hell? We’re not exactly a summer home.”

“Ah, if you please,” Aziraphale added, trying to inject some politeness into the conversation. “Or if you can.”

“Of course I can!” Orobas roared. “I am Orobas! I see the past, the present, and the future!” He waved an expansive hand, like an actor in an adaptation of Charles Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_ (the book was always so much funnier, in Azirapahale’s opinion; no production ever had an opening ramble on the relative deadness of doornails). He shot Mae’s smug expression a sharp look. “And I do too see the future. In fact, I inspired the only accurate books of prophecies every written. Though,” he snarled darkly, “I am well aware the second was destroyed unread.”

Aziraphale, though he would never use the term (he did not embrace slang easily, even if it had originated in Middle English) and would categorically deny it if asked, positively goggled at the demon. “You...you mean _Agnes Nutter_?”

“What?” the prince of hell snorted, “Did you think one of yours helped her out? As if they would.” He cracked his knuckles, each one a loud SNAP. “And who else but the true author behind the Nice and Accurate Prophecies would have been waiting around for a stubborn angel to show up and find out how to break his curse? I’ve had it written up for quite some time.” He leaned over and pulled out a heavy drawer that thunked loudly against the floor, dug around, and pulled out a parchment with flowing calligraphy on it. At Aziraphale and Mae’s looks, he said, “Proper prophecies are like poetry. They deserve the finest paper and penmanship."

Aziraphale wholeheartedly agreed, and said so. Orobas seemed pleased, and mentioned how nice it was to have an angel around, as demons had no appreciation for artistry. Mae heaved a sigh like a teenager forced to let every granny at a birthday party kiss their cheek.

The great demon cleared his throat and read aloud:

**_If twain shalle finde forms asunder, brought upon by bothe Heaven and Helle, they shall-_ **

Aziraphale cleared his throat rather loudly before interrupting. “I am sorry, my dear boy,” the demon twitched and his eyes widened; perhaps “dear boy” wasn’t something he was used to being called, but Aziraphale was Aziraphale and he pushed on, “but there is a certain time constraint we’re working under, and as language has developed significantly since Agnes’s time - not to say, of course, that language shouldn’t be preserved - perhaps a more modern and straightforward version could be provided?”

Orobas hemmed and hawed and muttered about beauty of the language and artistic license and the impatience of modern life, but he did set aside his parchment and say plainly:

“The curse laid upon you has broken your heart, and only you can mend it.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then scowled. “What the _hell_ -” he started to growl, but he was very rudely cut off by the door flying off the hinges and slamming into the far wall in a burst of red and orange flame.

**\--Raphael’s Lab, Heaven--**

“I don’t suppose I could take samples?” the Archangel asked as Crowley settled back into his human form.

"Ngk?!" He demanded, eyeing the wall of sharp things just beside her desk. "Samples? Of what?!"

“Oh, nothing substantial,” she said airily. “Just, you know, a skin sample or two. Maybe some hair. Blood would be nice. Do you make an Effort? Have sexual congress? There are special samples if you do-”

“That’s none of your businesss!” Crowley snapped, feeling his ears warm. He did not, but that was between him and his angel, not this madwoman. “And-and you don’t, nnnn, need that for ending the curssse, do you?” He hoped not. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken the time to make a penis or vagina (had he bothered in the Turkish baths in the 19th century? Maybe?), and he’d always rather let them be more visual than functional.

“Oh! Oh no.” Raphael traded a smile with Siriel. “That was just an issue of personal interest. I’ve been studying human scientists and they are _fascinating_. They find the most ingenious ways to approximate miracles, the dear things.”

Crowley pushed to his feet and waved his hands defensively in front of him. “Yes, yes, right, glad to hear it, everyone needs a hobby, but I’m a snake in heaven and I’d very much like to stay on topic. Siriel thinks you can help me with this curse.” Crowley bit his lip unconsciously, and his voice was just that little bit quieter when he asked, “...Can you?”

He knew before she answered. It was obvious on her face. “I’m afraid not, Anthony. I didn’t create the curse or assist in it in any way, I would probably do more damage than good by toying with it.”

Crowley’s shoulders slumped. He’s wanted-he’d hoped-

“Oh, my dear,” the archangel said, and for a moment he almost heard Airaphale’s voice, exasperated or caring or some of both, before she curled a finger under his chin and tilted his head back like a child. Her smile was soft and radiant at once, and he winced against the Grace that shone around her. “Don’t despair. It will end. It is ending.”

“What?”

“Siriel is fuzzy on the details, but she isn’t wrong. Her limitation, I believe, is a lack of understanding concerning the length and depth of your relationship with Aziraphale, as well as the nature of your feelings. You fell in love very slowly, didn’t you? And all along, your power and his were mixing, protecting each other. You think so much of yourselves as opposites, when that isn’t at all the case. Not only are we all of the same original stock, but you and he are something _special_.”

“In _love_?” Siriel squeaked, and she truly hadn’t understood, had she? He sometimes forgot what everyone else thought about demons and love; he’d known better far too long (as much as he’d half-heartedly denied it). “Like _humans_?”

Raphael’s eyes shone with stars. “No, like an angel and a demon who lived among and learned to love humans and His earth and then, even each other.” She let Crowley go.

“So..what?” he asked, mouth curving into a sarcastic smile. “The power of love will save us?”

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but I do believe that with some work and careful application of miracles, you could overcome the curse yourselves. I certainly don’t see any other way.” She patted his shoulder maternally. “At the moment, I’m more concerned about how we’re going to get you Earthside again. Your diabolical powers are showing more and more the longer you’re here, and the privacy miracles on my laboratory - Uriel _will_ pepper me with questions when I’m working - won’t protect you the moment you step outside. Jophiel would be very cross to find you here, to say nothing of Michael.” She tapped her lip with a fingertip. “Perhaps if we escort you out - quickly - our ethereal Grace may cover yours.” She motioned Siriel forward. “Stay between us as well as you can, letting me walk in front.” She fluffed her wings out a bit. “And walk quickly.”

It was a decent plan. Not a great plan, especially given how small Siriel was, but it was a decent one.

It’s a shame it didn’t work.

 _”Demon Crowley!”_ boomed a great voice that sent a shiver of instinctive fear down Crowley’s back. “Step forth!”

“Oh dear,” Raphael sighed as they looked up at the looming form of the Archangel Michael, in full armor and outstretched wings, a wicked sword in hand that gleamed with Grace.

“Fuck,” Crowley offered, more coloquially, but did as he was told with a saunter and a smile any used auto salesman would be proud of.


	6. Chapter 6

<

Orobas roared as he pushed to his feet, fire erupting in his hands. “Who dares?!” he growled, and the walls trembled at the sound of his voice.

Aziraphale knew the bleeding eyes of the demon who loomed in the destroyed doorway. He would never forget them, their smile, their sneer, as Aziraphale’s body burst into pain. “Dacarabia,” he whispered, but he didn’t shake. He put a hand out, blocking Mae’s chest, and white wings, made broad and strong for all the generals, snapped out behind him. “I’m not here to see you,” he said archly, even as he inwardly cursed himself for not holding on to his old sword when he had a chance. His limited power would do him no good here. “And I have no desire to fight you.”

But he wasn’t completely helpless. His fingers closed around a jar in the left pocket of his ratty coat. 

“You,” the demon sneered. “An angel in Hell?” They locked gazes with the furious Orobas. “This one is mine, you know. His punishment is _mine_.” They grinned. “And now his death is mine.”

“Be that as it may,” Orobas said irritably, “this office is mine, and you’ve destroyed my door for no reason other than a dramatic entrance, and I will have restitution!” He stepped in front of Aziraphale, his bulk in this demonic form enough to hide the angel and smaller demon away. A flicker of a long nail behind his back indicated a need to run. “Then you can settle your petty squabble with renegade angels on your own time.” He took a dangerous step toward Dacarabia, snarling low in his throat - and left an opening in the destroyed doorway.

Aziraphale and Mae exchanged a look. Mae grinned, grabbed the angel’s hand, and ran. 

Aziraphale had never been built for long sprints. Even in the early days, when he didn’t know exhaustion and spent eons practicing the sword and protecting creation, he did better with drop and assault attacks. Chasing was for swifter angels. Now, so accustomed to a human corporation and with the weight of his wings dragging him back, he gasped for air and panted, “We’ll never make it!” 

“Probably!” Mae tossed over her shoulder, fresh as a punk daisy. “Doesn’t mean you just give in!” 

Aziraphale’s chest burned but his mind calmed.

_Doesn’t mean you have to give in._

If he died here, now, Crowley would be alone, and everything they’d gone through, their long friendship, the lies, the Arrangement, Armageddon, all of it, would be for nothing. Because he believed in the depth of his eternal being that this was what they had _earned_ : the ability to love as no angel and demon had before. 

He stopped. 

“Hurry up, old man!” Mae snarled, but she didn’t have the strength to move a Principality, even one who had been semi-officially fired. 

“Is there somewhere more open nearby?” he asked. “A larger room or cavern?”

“Why? So they can splatter you on more walls?!”

“ _ **Is there?**_?” His voice reverberated, and his wings shone, and something like a crown glittered above his head. In his hand, the echo of a staff. 

Maestopholes didn’t know who she had been in Heaven. She’d always assumed someone pretty unremarkable, a member of the Choir, perhaps. But something in her snapped to attention at the sound of that voice, the crown and scepter of one of God’s Principalities, and she blessed aloud before turning and rushing down a different hallway. 

May as well die doing something cool, anyway.

Fire rolled down the hall behind them, harmless to any demons but deadly to one angel foolish enough to come to Hell for help. They nearly fell through a broad opening into a huge room, an amphitheater carved into solid stone. The stage had been replaced with a movie screen (torn and stained for effect) and ragged surround sound speakers were nailed inelegantly in the walls, but the room was still huge.

“They’re coming, Principality,” she said, releasing Aziraphale’s hand as it started to burn in her own. Power swirled around him, white and shining, but also dark, lurking, watchful.

Aziraphale gathered them both. 

“Crowley,” he whispered, and just the name brought a sharp smile to his lips, “be my shield.”

The midnight power - Crowley’s power, so slowly gathered over thousands of dinners and talks and trades and laughter and spats - coalesced into a solid shield before him. 

Hellfire burst into the theater, engulfing a yelping Mae, slamming into the shield -

-And dissipating. 

The sceptre in Aziraphale’s hand took ethereal form, and he grinned, broad and rare and wild. 

He was not going to die today. 

Michael had always been, even Crowley recalled, a fan of the dramatic. He liked trumpets and light piercing the clouds and golden glows around the spears he preferred to fight with. Clearly, he hadn’t changed; though his armor was more modern in design, it was miracled to look like gold and silver, and the spears were tipped in impossibly sharp diamond. 

He looked ridiculous, really. Kevlar looked badass in black or camo; not so much in false gold and silver. 

“Michael!” Crowley said as if meeting Michael was his oldest and best friend (hell, maybe he was, what did Crowley know?). “Just passing through, didn’t mean to trouble you!”

The archangel didn’t smile. Crowley was inanely reminded of grandmothers telling little humans not to scowl because their faces would get stuck that way. “You have broken the sanctity of heaven,” he intoned, and yes, bless everything, there was a faint echo to his voice. “The punishment for this is destruction.”

Crowley’s stomach decided to create a giant knot, but he only said, “Really? I didn’t know that. Did I miss a posted warning or something?”

Raphael laughed softly. Micheal turned his cold eyes on her. “This is not a matter for amusement.”

Raphael was unruffled. “I thought it was a good one, actually. Also, there isn’t a posted sign or any formal law that I know of, so,” she shrugged. “He has a point.”

If there is one thing Hell teaches a demon, it’s how to sense danger and get out of its way. Crowley had his personal secrets about the things Hell had done to him over the years, things he intended Aziraphale never to know, but they had been good for this: he sensed more than saw the sharp movement of Michael’s hand, and by the time the spear landed, Crowley was well away from it. 

Siriel gasped. The point of the weapon was inches from her foot. Raphael frowned up at her brother. “That was incredibly rude,” she said, but Michael only moved again, a second throw, and Crowley had to fall and scuttle away, already blessing himself for not thinking about the wide open _white_ space; his black clothes and wings weren’t going to help him hide here. He wouldn’t be able to-

A whistle of air, a smaller spear, and this one coming straight for his heart. “Aziraphale,” he whispered, because he was so, so sorry. He shouldn’t have given in to this insane plan. He shouldn’t have let his optimism overcome his good sense. He shouldn’t have-

The spear didn’t ricochet, or stop dead, but it did, inexplicably, _slow_. There, in mid air, it began to move as if through treacle, shivering and shoving through nothing at all. “ What the _heaven_?” Crowley muttered, but then he saw it: his power, black and red, and there, silver and white. 

He had Aziraphale’s power. It was _true_. He hadn’t seen it before, and until that moment, even with the word of Raphael, he hadn’t truly believed it.

The tip of the spear was inches from his nose now, and the tip dripped with holy water. 

Very carefully, with images of Ligur dancing in his head, Crowley reached behind the head of the spear and plucked the weapon out of the air. 

“So,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, just a little too wide for a proper human, “there’s this thing about love?” He stood, meeting Michael’s shocked gaze. “Means you’re never alone.”

It was a _terrible_ line, and Aziraphale must never know of it, but at least it worked. Michael wavered as he lifted another spear.

“How?” he demanded. “How did you do this? From whence this power?”

Crowley shifted his captured weapon, hoping he looked at least mildly intimidating. Fighting really wasn’t his _thing_. “Like I said, oh great Archangel of the Lord,” he winked. “It’s love.” 

Michael gave a shout and threw yet another spear, appearing in his hand by miracle and dripping holy water to the clouded tiles below. He rushed this time, hitting the ground and running forward, but Crowley didn’t run (he wanted to, don’t get him wrong, running was obviously the best idea, but if he was going to get out of this without Michael hunting him across the green earth, he had to make a stand). He knew what he had now, and he used it, gathering the mixed up powers, laughing as it swirled and danced to his will, a vortex that grabbed the spear and Michael’s hand and tossed them away. Michael, shocked, stumbled along gracelessly.

“Better let him go,” Raphael offered. “If you were meant to kill him, it’d be easier.” She sent a significant look upward. “Wouldn’t it?”

Michael glared at them both, but his hands curved into fists at his sides, empty of weapons. “You’re a _demon_ ,” he snarled. “You can’t have angelic power!”

Crowley cocked his hand into the most obnoxious hand gun he could manage. “Guess I’m special,” he said, and, moving backward in something that wasn’t quite a moonwalk (though he could, of course, do the moonwalk, no matter what Aziraphale said), he passed the warrior archangel and out through the Pearly Gate.

It really did come back to you, when you started fighting.

Dacarabia was a marquis, yes, but Aziraphale was a Principality, a leader, the design weakly copied to create a demon marquis. And, of course, he had a secret weapon, which he used to block every blow of hellfire and send it careening against the walls.

He found he was very happy that hellfire didn’t follow the physics of the real thing.

He didn’t have his sword, but he had the Scepter of his station, formed of his own Grace, and nearly forgotten when he was given the flaming sword in Eden. He had, too, the jar of water he'd hastily blessed before leaving the bookshop. He poured the sparkling water over the head of his scepter - a golden representation of Earth as she appeared in her earliest days - and it soaked into the engraved lines of oceans and continents.

Aziraphale took to the air in a fighting stance only angelic stock could take, holding the scepter as he would a sword. Dacarabia was tall in their demonic form, and Aziraphale didn’t dare change himself here, in the depths of hell. So he flew beyond the demon’s reach before closing his wings to drop down suddenly to strike at Dacarabia’s left arm.

The damage this first hit made proved the scepter’s usefulness as a weapon: it formed a blister in the demon’s skin that grew and popped, sending blood and ichor pouring down the muscles of their arm and dripping from the massive elbow.

“Mine!” Dacarabia screamed, furious. “You’re mine!” They landed a blow against the angel’s side that made Aziraphale's teeth rattle, and he nearly went down. Only the beating of his wings, already aching from unaccustomed use, kept him upright.

The sound of Mae’s cheering was distant in Aziraphale’s ears, but distinct. “Hit ‘em on the head! Blind ‘em! Go, go, old man! Kick his ass!”

It was, he felt, decent advice. When Dacarabia came close enough again (they really were a terrible fighter, no sense of balance, no sense of style, just lumbering around; Dacarabia was clearly used to dealing with slow moving, earthbound humans, and not a flying angel who would frankly rather be in bed with a cup of tea, but would do as he must), Aziraphale spun, the power of his great wings beating so hard that the demon stumbled, and brought down the scepter just over the demon’s right eye. 

Blood and plasma gushed from the blister as it burst and poured into the demon’s eye. They screamed and clamped a claw over it, but stomped forward determinedly. Sharp claws caught the tip of Aziraphale’s wing, tearing a few feathers free.

“I don’t want to kill you!” Aziraphale told him, backing up. “I just want to agree to end this, and go home.”

“We’ll end this when you’re dead!” the demon yowled. 

Aziraphale sighed, moved easily away from the stomping demon, and delicately smote the right eyeball with his scepter. 

The demon went down. The eye was destroyed, filled with Grace, leaving only a steaming socket. 

“They’ve lost,” Orobas rumbled from the doorway. “I’ll deal with them. You two,” he shot Mae a sharp look, “be on your way. And be quick about it.”

Aziraphale landed, breathing hard, still holding the nearly-corporal shield of Crowley’s power. “I can’t fight through a horde of demons,” he panted, “not even with the shield.”

“Good thing you won’t have to. Take my Road.” He touched Mae’s forehead, and the small demon nodded, her eyes unfocused. “Maestopholes knows the way.” 

“But my curse! You didn’t tell me how to-”

“Yes I did. Distinctly.” Orobas scowled. “Don’t look a gift prophecy in the mouth. And expect me to be by for tea sometime as payment. I’ve heard rumors about your collection.” He held up a hand. “I promise no fire.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, ever pedantic, but he stopped as he realized he couldn’t _feel_ the Curse anymore. The heavy weight on his spirit was gone, replaced with something brighter, with Grace and a sense of himself that had been missing for nearly a decade. “I-” he looked at his shield. 

Crowley’s shield.

And he saw it, then, for the first time. His Curse, swirled in red, a blood-colored miasma. 

He’d pulled it out. With Crowley’s power, he had pulled the Curse out of his body.

Aziraphale gave a distinctly out of character bark of a laugh that would have made Crowley worried about his mental health, and let the shield go. He opened his hands, and Crowley’s power - clever, loving, ridiculous, kind, mischievous Crowley’s power - swirled back into and around him. The Curse, burning and unwelcome, twisted in the air before falling to the floor in a splatter of demonic blood. 

“Home,” he said, turning to the little demon who had helped him. “Let’s go home.”

“Yours,” she said sharply, “not mine.” But she spun on her heel and led the way. 

As they exited the theater, the sounds of Dacarabia’s groaning and Orobas’ chiding growing faint behind them, the long, twisting hallway simply...wasn’t there. There were only a few meters, and then the same heavy door they’d entered through.

“Princes,” Mae grumbled. “They get all the best toys.” She looked over her shoulder at Aziraphale. “Come on, old man, time to stop gapin’ and get out of Hell.”

If Crowley was there, Aziraphale would never have resisted the urge to make a joke about the need for handbaskets, but as it was, he simply hurried after his guide on feet made light by eager anticipation. 

Crowley. Crowley would make it, and come to the bookshop, and everything would be right again. He believed in Crowley.

**\--Outside Heaven--**

Crowley hated elevators on a good day. In addition to muzak, he’d designed their ominous squeaks and little bangs, and as a consequence did his best to avoid them. Today, when his skin was still buzzing with Grace and a vengeful archangel might decide to come for him after all, he truly, deeply _detested_ elevators.

“Beating the button won’t make it come any faster,” Siriel said. 

He sneered at the down button and slammed his fist against it for the fifth time. “But it’ll make me _feel_ better!” 

Siriel sighed. He ignored her. The elevator, _finally_ dinged open. 

The demon all but shoved the angel inside, and set to abusing the doors closed button. 

He didn’t know what time it would be when they reached Earth. Time had so little meaning in Heaven that it could be minutes or days. It could be night, and he could walk to the bookshop, or it could be day, and he would be forced to slither. Either way, he told himself, it wouldn’t matter. As long as Aziraphale came home, too, as long as he hadn’t been seriously injured, it would be fine. If he had an answer for ending the curse that was less ridiculous than “love yourselves cured,” that would be a well-deserved bonus. 

Siriel tried to make conversation a few times, but only received a collection of Crowley’s more random “not paying attention” noises. When the doors dinged and slid open to reveal the tower, Crowley darted forward, tripped over his own foot, and nearly slammed into the ancient stones

He closed his eyes, waiting. 

Nothing happened. Night, then. 

“Your wings,” Siriel said, tucking her own away and out of human sight.

It took Crowley a moment - he used his wings so rarely, and he hadn’t been grooming them properly since the Curse - and right now he refused to waste time remembering how to fold them away. Instead, he merely pressed them closer to his back in a token attempt at hiding them. “The bookshop,” he said instead. “We’re going to the bookshop.” 

He broke into a run.

**\----**

Aziraphale burst from the earth, wings glowing in the moonlight. There were no special entrances to hell, just an understanding of how to get there through any ground, and so he emerged in the street in front of the shop. Or, what was left of that particular bit of street after an angel in full wing and a small demon burst through. He didn’t stop to fix it. He was home.

He ran up the stairs, scepter disappearing from his hand, and threw open the doors.

“Crowley?!”

**\-----**

Crowley heard him before he saw him, a silhouette in the bookshop’s lights. He gave a whoop and took the stairs in a giant leap, twisting his ankle on landing and not giving an angel’s ass. He skidded inside and froze.

“Aziraphale.” 

Heaven, he sounded tender. Heaven, he felt it too, because there was _Aziraphale_ , whole and cognizant and turning to look at him in a gentle blaze of light that didn’t burn the way Michael’s or even Raphael’s did. It felt warm, and welcoming, and _home_.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and his ever-steady voice shook gently. “Oh, Crowley.”

One moved, or they both did, or perhaps the magic that had soaked into the shop over two hundred years decided to just tip them together. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how, it only mattered that when their hands touched, angelic power and occult didn’t clash. They melded, curled, curved around the two immortal beings as they fell into each other’s arms for the first time in far, far too long. 

**\----**

Siriel coughed and turned her head politely away. There were kisses. Little kisses here and there, soft voices, definitely tears. Even as Crowley’s dark wings folded to block the view, it was still rather embarrassing. 

“Ugh,” Mae commented beside her. “Disgusting.”

It was a bit disgusting, but, well.

It was love, wasn’t it? And love was God’s favorite thing.

“Come on,” Siriel said. “Let’s give them some privacy. We’ll come back in a few days and see about getting everything official and signed for handing off our jobs. They’ll think we’re clever, finding a way to tie them to the island.” She grinned. “And then, our promotions!”

“Oh, right.. That’s what this was all about, yeah?” Mae shrugged and stepped outside, happy to leave the loving reunion behind them. “Get right on that.”

They closed the door neatly behind them, and walked out into the night.

**\---------**

Aziraphale and Crowley didn't notice when their counterparts left, in large part because they'd barely noticed Mae and Siriel were there in the first place. 

"Darling," the angel breathed and then, "Crowley, my beautiful, clever snake, I love you, I love you, I-"

Crowley blushed, because he hadn't had time to get used to hearing those words before everything went to Curse, had he? But he wrapped his arms more properly around the soft body and breathed in the scent of sunshine (and, unpleasantly, brimstone; there was a bath in their immediate future, he decided) and managed a collection of letters and sounds that could have been, "I adore you" or "wooohee!", and either version pleased his angel greatly.

Aziraphale pulled away, and Crowley gave a hiss of distress before soft hands cradled his face in warmth and affection. "Darling boy."

Crowley grinned, bright and happy. "Hey there, Angel." His eyes were a little watery, entirely due to dust in the air. "It's been a long time since I saw you by moonlight."

Aziraphale tilted his demon's head down and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "Sweet thing."

"I am not," Crowley protested mildly, "demons aren't sweet. I gave the two-fingered salute to the Archangel Michael."

Aziraphale looked more smug than impressed. "Impressive,” he said, “but _I_ made a shield of demonic power." Then he kissed one sharp cheekbone. "For which I owe you thanks."

"Show off," Crowley said softly, resting his hands over Aziraphale's and tilting his head to brush his lips over one palm. "It's night, Angel, and you're here. At least we have these hours together." His gaze skittered away. "How did you do it? I didn't manage to- Raphael fed me nonsense about- but I didn't-"

Aziraphale tugged him close again, heads tucked together, Crowley's nose happily buried in the angel's shoulder. He could feel the vibration of that beloved voice (so ridiculously British and proper and that bit pompous, and oh he had missed it) as Aziraphale said, "You can end yours, too." Crowley pulled back enough to see the rare grin on Aziraphale's face. "I'll show you how." He wrinkled his nose a bit. "But we'd best get a bucket."

“A bucket?”

Aziraphale nodded. “It’ll save the carpets. Come along, dear. I’ve no intention of you turning reptile in the bath.” He held out a hand. Crowley took it. That bath was sounding better and better. Maybe, Crowley mused, he should make bubbles. His hedonistic brat of an angel loved a proper bubble bath.

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I do too. You.”

Aziraphale’s smile over his shoulder was gentle and pleased. “I know, my dear,” he said, “but I do love hearing it in your voice.”

It had not been difficult, once he knew how, for Aziraphale to guide Crowley in the removal of his own Curse. They had spent the first sunrise in each other’s arms, curled up on the sofa, talking about everything they’d thought about in the last eight years. The second, they settled arm in arm on the roof of Crowley’s building and toasted the rising sun with the sparkle of champagne. The third, they went out to a cafe and lost track of time, having three meals and taking up a booth with their chatter for the entire day.

It was impossible to think, in those hours that turned so quickly into days, that there had been thousands of years when they went without seeing each other for decades at a time. 

Eventually, they did stop for breath (hands entangled, laughing at an inside joke, a brush of Aziraphale’s lips across the pulse of a demonic wrist), and in that breath, they decided they needed a break from London. 

Crowley chose the destination. Aziraphale selected the cottage. They built the greenhouse together, and no they didn’t do it the old-fashioned way. Fond of humans they may be, but hard physical labor when they could simply use miracles was going a bit far. 

They walked along the Dyke, practicing the give and flow of power between them, delighting in the development of a new skill only they had access to. They waited to see if Aziraphale would Fall, or if Crowley would suddenly be an angel again (a position he had no real interest in; let wankers like Michael be angels, _he_ was a demon). Neither happened. 

Clearly, they were exactly who He meant for them to be. 

There were moments when Crowley woke in the dark, a hiss on his breath, writhing and reaching out with hands he didn’t quite know he had. But Aziraphale was always there, whether sitting up and reading or curled around him, watching, and his fond voice would bring Crowley back to a present where there was no Curse, but only joy (and squabbles over ridiculous theories, and learning to cook, and being under each other’s feet, and love and love and love). 

There were times when Aziraphale would shake himself out of a reverie brought on by reading for longer than any human could, and his eyes would need a moment to adjust, and it would be, in that instant, as if the world was distant and twisted and he was trapped in a memory of being something else. But Crowley would be there with tea and sarcasm and a kiss on the head, and all would be well. 

On paper, they were both returned to their previous positions, apparently in a desire to keep them happy and silent about their new found abilities. Instead of being in charge of the entire planet, Aziraphale and Crowley were assigned, officially, only to the Isle. Unlike a certain pair of newly promoted, world-wide agents, they saw no reason to follow the rules and traveled abroad whenever it pleased them. In reality, neither heaven nor hell had the nerve to send them actual jobs to do, and so they considered themselves retired on a generous stipend.

Occasionally, the Principality of Earth stopped by for tea, or to drop off her latest paper for editing and perusal by the Principality of the Isle. Crowley found their conversations painfully boring and so, despite promises to a certain Antichrist, amused himself by inventing microtransactions in video games. Hell sent him a commendation more or less despite themselves.

More rarely, a demon tasked with thwarting the Earth’s Principality would stop by Crowley’s greenhouse to bitch about Hell’s politics. He didn’t really pay attention, but that was fine; Mae was never particularly interested in other people’s opinions. She would say her piece, then leave Crowley to threaten his plants with the possibility of being bunged in Hell themselves if they didn’t look lively.

And once a month, they would travel back to the bookshop in SoHo to spend a few days with the shop open, save for teatime on the 13th, when a demon who told no lies and appreciated a good bit of poetry would provide the sandwiches (he assured them the ingredients were mortal-world sourced, and since he didn’t lie…). One April, an archangel interested in taking samples (“Still no”) showed up as well (they suspected Siriel of telling), and from then on it was often a very strange foursome for tea, chatting and debating among books and greenery, perfectly balanced.

And if Aziraphale insisted that Crowley learn to fight properly, and Crowley insisted that their wings be kept in shape, and if they practiced borrowing and utilizing each other’s powers, well, who could blame them? 

They had chosen Earth, and Humanity, and if the day should come when they were needed to stand against Heaven and Hell-

They would. Together.


End file.
